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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25681915">i (want to) believe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lackadaisical/pseuds/lackadaisical'>lackadaisical</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Avatar: The Last Airbender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Bisexual Sokka (Avatar), Doctors &amp; Physicians, F/M, Gay Zuko (Avatar), Iroh (Avatar) loves Tea, M/M, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Past Abuse, Past Sokka/Suki (Avatar), Podcasters, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:54:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>89,213</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25681915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lackadaisical/pseuds/lackadaisical</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey humanoids, cryptids, ghouls, and extraterrestrials: its ya boys, the Ghoul Bros, here with another chilling episode of Cryptid: Decoded, your one-stop channel for digging deep into the weird and strange. I’m Sokka, that’s Aang, and today we’re continuing our series on phantom soldiers and haunted battlefields.”</p><p>Or: Sokka runs a podcast on all things strange with his best friend, and remains oblivious for Far Too Long about his new—and Hot™—doctor listening to him religiously.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aang &amp; Sokka (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar), Azula &amp; Zuko (Avatar), Iroh &amp; Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>354</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>834</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Part "Buzzfeed: Unsolved," part "And That's Why We Drink," but all rom-com and spooks fluff. This is by far the dumbest AU idea I could've gone with but yet, I did. Hope you enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aang clicks record, holding his fingers up for Sokka to begin in <em>three—two—one— </em>“Hey humanoids, cryptids, ghouls, and extraterrestrials: its ya boys, the Ghoul Bros, here with another episode of <em>Cryptid: Decoded</em>, your one-stop channel for digging deep into the weird and strange. That’s Aang—”</p><p>“And that’s Sokka,” Aang picks up, a well-practiced introduction they’ve rehashed twice a week, every week for nearly three years now. “And today we’re continuing our series on phantom soldiers and haunted battlefields.”</p><p>They pause, allowing time for Sokka to jimmy in the introduction music in post-production, Sokka muting the microphones to whisper: “Before I forget: I got an email back from the Gettysburg people.”</p><p>“No shit, dude?” Aang hoots, smile stretching at the sight of Sokka’s horribly-contained grin. He has a horrible poker face. Still, Aang is a good friend, so he sets up Sokka with: “They finally decide to tell us to go screw ourselves? They’ve been giving you the real run-around.”</p><p>Since Sokka dashed into their favorite coffee-bookshop and shoved his preliminary research for the battlefield series under Aang’s nose, the finale has always been Gettysburg. A ten hour road-trip from them in Chicago—eight hours, if Aang drove—it seemed a fitting conclusion for a series about battlefields, the lore associated with them, and instances of hauntings. As Sokka reasoned, ‘it is, after all, haunted as shit.’</p><p>Aang thought this solid reasoning. He also recognized Sokka’s expression—all ruddy cheeks and feverishly shining eyes. It’s plagued his existence for twelve years of friendship, and he therefore agreed without question. He trusted Sokka to work out the logistics of filming in Gettysburg, which boiled down to sweet-talking the Gettysburg Historical Foundation, convincing them he and Sokka <em>aren’t</em> crackpot theorists who would churn up the battlefield while using energy rods (which is disappointing, though Aang <em>had</em> promised they’d never use energy rods again; not after the Halloween episode in Salem last year. And, a promise is a promise).</p><p>“That’s the thing,” Sokka replies, smile threatening to splinter his cheeks. “They finally agreed! We’ve got a slot this Saturday night; they’re offering a guide and everything! We just have to do a promo for them on the show, that sort of thing.”</p><p>Aang makes the appropriately excited noises, clapping his friend on the back. “That’s great! Should we announce it now?” He gestures to the timer on their recording software, flashing from the recording studio’s computer screen (the recording studio dominating most of the spare bedroom in Sokka’s apartment).</p><p>“I was hoping you’d suggest that,” Sokka crows, switching the microphones live again and beginning, “Alright, before we begin, folks, we have a little announcement to make—”</p><hr/><p>With a quiet sigh, Dr. Zuko Sozin, M.D., regretfully taps the screen of his iPhone, pausing the opening of another <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>episode as his bus rumbles to his stop. He managed to get through two episodes on the ride from his townhouse—the brand new one on Gettysburg, and the one on Normandy from the week before. He’d listened to the Normandy episode three times already, he now anticipates all the jokes and side-stories, and he feels the familiar hollow pang of disappointment that he couldn’t listen to <em>just one more episode</em>.</p><p>Stuffing his iPhone into his coat pocket, Zuko takes the bus stairs two at a time, landing with a wave to his usual bus-driver, before hunching his shoulders against the early morning chill. The late winter cold—its <em>March, </em>for Christ’s sake, and still the snow accumulates in faint flurries on the withered grass, the sidewalks—nips his exposed skin, rushing down the nape of his coat, urging him along to his clinic. He’s been in Chicago since his residency, nearly five years now, and still he aches for Texas weather, even the sticky summers.</p><p>He aches so much for it, he’s given his practice-partner, Dr. Jeong Jeong Huo, notice he’ll be heading back for Texas on September 1<sup>st</sup>. The clinical trial he’s head researcher of will be concluded by then, and Zuko’s dad has been hounding him to return to his ‘familial obligations,’ demanding he live in the greater Dallas area for two years now, and the constant badgering had finally worn him down. There's only so many stilted phone calls, awkward holiday gatherings, and pointed reminders of 'who put you through med school, anyway?' Zuko can endure before he caved and conceded to move back to Texas. Azula, his little sister, hissed he had no spine when she heard Zuko couldn't stand up to their father, and it would've stung if Zuko hadn't figured that out for himself years ago.</p><p>Dr. Huo, Zuko’s mentor and lifeline throughout those mad, early days after earning his white coat, had pursed his lips, knowing Zuko wasn’t necessarily letting his career—or mental health—needs deciding his future, yet Huo is nothing but discreet. He says nothing, not needing to to make Zuko feel guilty. But yet, it’s easy for Zuko to justify the move to himself: he's not doing this to please Ozai (well, not <em>only </em>doing it to please Ozai). Chicago has felt like a dead-end, a barely-lived existence since most of his UChicago friends graduated and scattered across the country for their first jobs. Since, Zuko's had a nonexistent social life outside of visiting his uncle at his teashop on the weekends, and virtually no romantic prospects. Dr. Huo quietly declared Zuko had learned all he has to teach and, unaware those words sent a shot of melancholy through Zuko’s chest, promised to help Zuko with establishing himself in Dallas. </p><p>All that really buoys Zuko’s spirts, all that keeps him going until September, is <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>and the warm voices of Sokka and Aang. He knows it’s pathetic, but he’s begun to think of them as friends after listening to the podcast for the past three years.</p><p>Shuffling into the clinic, the glass door with his and Dr. Huo’s names stenciled on the front easing closed behind him, Zuko walks into a wall of noise: Ty Lee, the clinic’s secretary, shouts into the office phone. “The Doc just walked in, yes!—Yeah, I’m sure, his schedule is free—just—just get yourself down here—your leg is <em>broken, yes, </em>you need to see a doctor, silly!—will you—<em>oh</em>, you will? Good, see you soon.”</p><p>When Ty Lee returns the phone to its receiver—‘a landline, Doc, really? Are you allergic to innovation and the future?’ she teased on her first day, staring down at his desk and its prehistoric landline—she smiles serenely at Zuko, the image of decorum. “Good morning, Doc; you look particularly frozen today. It’s even turned your aura blue.”</p><p>Touching a distracted hand to the burnt-half of his face, as if checking if he could <em>feel </em>it radiating blue, Zuko asks, “What was that all about?”</p><p> “Oh.” Ty Lee flaps a dismissive hand. “My friend broke his leg over the weekend. He went to the ER yesterday, but he needs a specialist and you just so happen to have your first appointment free.”</p><p>“Ah,” Zuko intones, relieved to hear Ty Lee hadn’t been shouting at an actual patient; though he <em>does </em>worry she yelled at an injured friend. Shucking off his coat and hanging it on the rack by the door, Zuko calls, padding from the waiting room and into the back: “Send him in whenever he gets here.”</p><p> “Will do, Doc,” Ty Lee shouts back and Zuko can practically <em>hear </em>her little mock-salute.</p><p>And the following fifteen minutes are inanely normal. There’s no indication of what is to come: Zuko retrieves his coffee thermos from his messenger bag, pouring a cup of coffee and sipping at it as great coils of steam rose off of it, tickling his nose, his scar. It’s been years, but warmth (even hot-coffee-warmth) doesn’t make him flinch anymore. He checks his emails—spam, spam, coupon for a new stethoscope, email from his med school professor, Dr. Jee—reviews files for the day’s appointments, and even orders more kibble for his dog, Druk, before Ty Lee’s voice buzzes through the pager: “Doc, order up.”</p><p>Sighing, rubbing his temple, Zuko clicks on the intercom function of his own landline, buzzing back: “Ty Lee, I told you not to refer to patients that way.”</p><p>Blithely ignoring him, Ty Lee replies, “Mai’s showing him to room three.”</p><p>Zuko passes the clinic’s P.A., Mai Saito, exchanging good mornings and inquiries about how each other have been (Zuko can always guess the answer; it’s about the same as yesterday: there’s only a nine-hour turn around between when they close the clinic and then open again). Mai hands over room three’s clipboard, informing in her usual drawl, “Sokka Imiq. He says he was out in Gettysburg this past weekend, night hiking, and screwed up his right leg. I think that’s putting it mildly.” Zuko raises an eyebrow, looking over the records. “He got it looked at it pretty quickly, but I think we’ll have to reset it.”</p><p>“Alright,” Zuko replies, nodding, offering Mai a thanks before continuing down the hall to room three. His eyes never move from the records, walking automatically, and he enters the examining room with a: “Good morning, Mr. Imiq, my name is Dr. Sozin, I’ll be your doctor today—”</p><p>A voice, lightened with humor and forced-cheer—cheer grounded out from between gritted teeth—asks: “Just for today? Not tomorrow?” And Zuko <em>knows </em>that voice.</p><hr/><p>Sokka doesn’t <em>deal </em>with certainties: he makes a living running a fucking podcast on folklore and spectral sightings, it’s literally in his job description to throw certainty out a car-window while driving, blowing a raspberry. Yet, he’s <em>certain </em>he’s never seen anyone like, well, <em>like that </em>in real life.</p><p>Skin pale enough to be chiseled from marble, dark hair rebellious and falling from a meticulous part to fall into his <em>gorgeous </em>eyes and over a roguish scar, this man—<em>his doctor—</em>manages to wear scruffy handsomeness with the nonchalance of obliviousness. Yet, surely that can’t be right: how can a perfect human not realize his perfectness? How could he have wandered off of a hospital movie set and into a real clinic without catching his reflection, without working that small-smile he currently fixes on Sokka into a hundred-mega-watt beam? Smiling at his beautifulness the way that all beautiful people do—usually splashing the waves on a beach in a tiny Speedo? (Sokka tries very hard not to imagine the doctor in a Speedo. He <em>almost</em> succeeds).</p><p><em>I bet his full smile needs sunglasses to look at, </em>Sokka thinks, dumbly. He’s been doing a lot of dumb things recently, actually. Breaking his leg in Gettysburg while running after an EMF voice of a Union solider the least of all dumbassery; the most dumb thing being asking that cheeky question to an impossibly cute doctor.</p><p>Sokka could punch himself, he really could (but, maybe if he asks his sister nicely enough, she’d oblige. She <em>did </em>declare Sokka ‘the Lord and Savior of Dipshits’ as they waited to get x-rays of Sokka’s leg last night. Sokka insisted they drive back to Chicago on Sunday <em>and </em>edit together the podcast episode to released it on time. His damn leg could be sacrificed for professionalism).</p><p>The target of Dr. Sozin’s little smile, Sokka clasps his hands in his lap, worrying his fingers into a sweaty tangle. “Um, uh,” he croaks. “H-hello, hi, what brings you here? Well, I guess that’s a dumb question—my leg brought you here, since I, kind of, well, broke it—which you already know, of course. Really dumb on my part to break it, but, uh, don’t worry, I know. My friends have all told me multiple times and . . .” <em>And, </em>he’s rambling. It is decidedly Not Cute™.</p><p>Yet, Dr. Sozin’s eyes fix on him, a light of amusement flickering in those <em>gorgeous </em>amber eyes, and Sokka pretends like he came across as endearing, not manic. “I was told you broke your leg on a night hike. Care to explain to me what you were doing?”</p><p>Coughing, Sokka shifts as best he can—immobile and propped up with his leg encased on the examining table—and offers lamely: “I was…uh, out, uh, enjoying nature. At night. Yep.” It’s lame, but it’s still better than the mortifying truth.  No way in <em>fuck </em>would Sokka explain his ghost box picked up a scraggily, ghost-voice singing a soldier’s song, and that he’d literally jumped off a (not very tall) cliff to chase after it. How would he even begin to phrase that? ‘<em>So, listen, Doc, I have zero dignity, and I essentially prostitute myself out for my fans’ entertainment by paying no regard, like, less than no regard, negative regard to common sense. Like, I think I’ve unplugged the common-sense app in my brain</em>.’</p><p> <em>Yeah, not great, </em>Sokka decides.</p><p>He’s so busy thinking himself in circles, Sokka misses Dr. Sozin’s slight shoulder-slouch, the brief twist of his mouth of his, perhaps, disappointment.</p><p>Scribbling a note onto Sokka’s records (Sokka imagines it reads: ‘this particular patient is particularly an idiot’), Sozin says, “I’ll need to examine you for myself, see what the next steps are. Is that okay?”</p><p>Sokka’s mind conjures wild images of Sozin’s hands on him, inspecting his skin with gentle touches, occasionally kisses—<em>Sozin’s</em> <em>mouth inspecting his mouth—</em>and all he can do is squeak out, “Uh, yeah, sure.” Any more of a response would probably lead to Sokka’s brain short-circuiting, sparks flying from his ears and a ‘warning: system error’ flashing across his face. Sokka squints very hard at the kitten poster—<em>what’s less arousing that an kitten poster?—</em>on the wall opposite the exam table as Dr. Sozin carefully unwinds Sokka’s leg bandage, every physical brush of his finger sending spiking, heated needles through Sokka.</p><p>And, even though it’s March and not December, it must be a season of miracles, because Sokka doesn’t <em>completely </em>disgrace himself for the remainder of the appointment.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sokka teaches a master class in flirting with such great lines as: "Do you—are you, um, into Sasquatches?” </p>
<p>Everything goes exactly as expected.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have no self-control so I'm posting sooner than I told myself I would. Expect slower updates, but hopefully consistent(!!), updates after this!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hey humanoids, cryptids, ghouls, and extraterrestrials: its ya boys, the Ghoul Bros, here with another episode of <em>Cryptid: Decoded</em>, your one-stop channel for digging deep into the weird and strange. That’s Aang—”</p>
<p>“And that’s Sokka!” Aang’s voice buzzes through Zuko’s Bluetooth headphones as he scuttles down from the L-station, the March chill seeming to chase out of the uncomfortable warmth of the train and down the stairs to the street below. He huddles his nose into the popped collar of his wool coat.</p>
<p>Aang continues: “And you’re listening to our weekly Friday segment, ‘Chew and Chat,’ where we take a break from the usual lineup of spooks and kooks to sample some local fare while answering fan-mail from you lovely people, and talk a little bit about our lives.”</p>
<p>‘<em>Local fare’ being ‘Chicago fare’, </em>Zuko thinks, a thrill zinging through him at this new, secret tidbit of information. It’s a little pathetic, Zuko knows. He could’ve grilled Soka for more factoids; could’ve gotten an autograph, a hint at what the new podcast series after the haunted battlefields will be, <em>something, </em>but <em>no. </em>When the appointment wound down, Sokka’s leg dressing changed and leg reset, Zuko found himself mute. Well, ‘gaping like a fish while his little rodent mind scrambled for a non-embarrassing way to say he listens to <em>Cryptid: Decoded’ </em>might be a more accurate description.</p>
<p>But then, Sokka began to fidget, began to blush, and Zuko desperately wished to vanish on the spot. <em>Of course, </em>he made Sokka uncomfortable. His scar has that effect; Zuko knows there comes a point when people, no matter how nice or handsome or funny (<em>and wow, was Sokka all those adjectives and more) </em>they are, simply cannot stand the scar anymore. Zuko gets it, has come to terms with it, so he hastily told (more like shouted at) Sokka that Mai would be in to finish taking care of him.</p>
<p>Zuko may or may not have run to his office, hiding for the remainder of the day.</p>
<p>He shakes his head now, as if batting away the memory and the inevitable cringe it invited. That was four days ago. In the past. He’d never see Sokka again (<em>unless something really bad happens to his leg again, </em>Zuko thinks, knowing it’s against his doctor oaths to think that so optimistically). He’d blown his shot to talk with the creator of his favorite podcast.</p>
<p>And that’s okay. Expected. It’s part and parcel with his life.</p>
<p>Zuko hums along to the podcast’s theme music as it plays in a gamble to cheer himself up. The music is a synthesized tune which (<em>maybe?) </em>started life as a remix between the <em>Ghostbusters, X-Files, </em>and <em>Casper the Friendly ghost </em>theme songs, and he’s bopping his head by the time crescendos to the wobbly trumpet flare. He swings around a street corner, narrowly dodging a delivery man with a good-humored wave. Very little could dampen his mood while listening to <em>Cryptid: Decoded, </em>even memories of his own social incompetence.</p>
<p>As the music fades, Sokka begins: “Today we’ve got a spread from a brand new Indian fusion restaurant—”</p>
<p>“What’s it fused with?” Aang asks.</p>
<p>Sokka hums. “Quebec cooking? I think yours is tofu curry-poutine? Mine’s chicken-curry-poutine? Well, we’ll find out soon as we read your fan-mail and, you know, just talk about shit. First things first, Aang: take a bite and tell us your initial reactions.”</p>
<p>A pause, presumably filled with Aang negotiating out a French fry loaded with curry and gravy; an appreciative groan. “God, <em>wow</em>, I had my doubts and I regret them already; my fellow ghouligans, I highly recommend it.” A sound clip of a chorus of kids cheering plays and Zuko smiles down at the gray cement underfoot. “Alright, now that I’ve had a food-gasm, let’s get on with the show. Before Sokka can get us off topic or distract me, I’d like to inform you, our devoted listeners, of what we edited out of last Monday’s Gettysburg episode.”</p>
<p>“<em>Noooo</em>, we don’t have to talk about <em>that</em>,” whines Sokka.</p>
<p> Aang merrily ignores him. “Of course we regret editing things out from episodes, we don’t want to make it seem like we’re withholding information from you, <em>but </em>we didn’t think it would fit the tone we were striving for if we kept in Sokka literally falling off a cliff and fracturing his shin.” In the podcast’s background, Sokka makes caterwauling noises. Zuko imagines Sokka—he can’t believe he now has a face to the voice <em>and what a face—</em>working himself up to a steadily more luminescent shade of red.  “But, the breaking of the bones isn’t even the best part, it’s the doctor—”</p>
<p>“Noooo!” Sokka groans on a dying breath.</p>
<p>Air catches in Zuko’s throat, choking and rattling him to a halt. He stares at a fenced-in tree, at the chattering sparrows perched on its bare branches, at someone putting on their parking lots and doing a classic Chicago double-park. Yet, he comprehends none of it. His heart has leapt into his throat. <em>Were they talking about—?</em></p>
<p>“It’s the doctor that’s really the highlight of this story. You see,” Aang’s voice grows louder as he hunkers closer to the microphone, “Sokka had to go see a bone specialist and that doctor was <em>so damn </em>dreamy, Sokka won’t shut up about him.”</p>
<p>Sokka grumbles, but says in resigned agreement: “It’s for good reason, I swear. He’s, well, he’s dreamy, but the worst part is that I absolutely cannot go back and see him. I mean, I kind of don’t need to because my leg just needs to heal for a while, but even if I had to go back soon, I couldn’t. He definitely thinks I’m an idiot.”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry, buddy, we <em>all </em>think you’re an idiot,” Aang assures but the words don’t register for Zuko, a garble of white noise fills his ears, his mind incapable of stringing one thought after another let alone processing how <em>Sokka </em>thinks that he is <em>dreamy</em>? Is that a legitimate thing: to be dreamy? (and surely it <em>is </em>him, right? Not some other bone specialist Sokka’s seeing? <em>Is it a thing to cheat on your doctor by seeing other doctors?</em>)</p>
<p>Zuko’s not sure; he’s not sure why it makes his insides squirm, either.</p>
<p>“Nephew? Are you well? Nephew? <em>Zuko!</em>” A voice jars Zuko from his stupor.</p>
<p>Perhaps its instincts honed from his rotation in the ER, or the hyper-tension of suddenly emerging—head breaking the surface of the fog—back into reality, but Zuko reacts perhaps too aggressively, pausing his iPhone and whipping off his headphones, pivoting to find his Uncle Iroh blinking at him, askance. Uncle, for his part, looks slightly alarmed.</p>
<p>His beard kind of puffs, and little hairs frizz from his (unfairly stylish, considering he’s pushing sixty-years-old) top knot, giving the impression his hair is alarmed, too.</p>
<p>“Oh um,” Zuko offers intelligently, hurriedly stuffing his phone and headphones into his messenger bag, coaching his expression into something amiable (he <em>hopes </em>it's amiable, at least). “H-hey, Uncle, hi! Um, great to see you, fancy seeing you, um, here—” His eyes dart up and finds he’s standing outside the Jasmine Dragon, his uncle’s teashop. Considering Uncle lived above the shop in a (unfairly stylish, again considering he’s pushing sixty) apartment, it’d be more uncommon for Zuko to <em>not </em>find Uncle here. Especially considering its Friday afternoon, when Zuko usually comes by to catch up and do some work. Zuko’s not sure how long he’s been standing there in daze. Judging by Uncle’s expression, probably an embarrassing amount of time. “How are you?”</p>
<p>“I am well, but are feeling sick? I saw you standing out here, and when you didn’t come in after five minutes, I got worried. Are you sure you aren’t overworking yourself?" Iroh’s caterpillar-thick eyebrows march closer together, threatening to become one large eyebrow.</p>
<p>“Oh, no, no, just lost in thought,” Zuko assures hurriedly.</p>
<p>Uncle frowns, obviously not buying the explanation, but he doesn’t prod further. Instead he just says: “Well, are you coming in?”</p>
<p>Muttering flustered agreement, Zuko scuttles into the warmth of the teashop after Uncle, calling a greeting to Toph, a fellow regular and sort-of friend. They struck up a conversation about six months ago, when Zuko noticed her in the teashop for the fourth Friday in a row with her seeing eye-dog, a Labrador named Badger (short for Badgermole. You know, a perfectly rational name for a dog). And Zuko guesses he should probably count people as friends when they consistently talk about things as far ranging as movie hot-takes to how shit Mayor Zhao is to proper dog care. Toph even introduced Badger to Zuko’s dog, Druk. They’re definitely friends.</p>
<p><em>Right? </em>(No, really, he’s asking. He’s never really had ‘friends’ before, just a loose handful of acquaintances).</p>
<p>“Hey, Sparky!” replies Toph, grinning in the general direction of Zuko. “You interested in being a guest in class again?” Ah yes, the main reason Toph’s probably Zuko’s friend: she owns a martial arts dojo, and they bonded over their love of Hung Gar and Kung Fu (to name a few). Toph’s invited Zuko in as a guest instructor twice now, to the delight of the gaggle of prepubescent girls and boys who took Toph’s Saturday morning class.</p>
<p>“As long as you don’t embarrass me,” Zuko replies, teasingly, “<em>Again</em>.”</p>
<p>“Well maybe if you focused on your basics, you wouldn’t be so easy to embarrass,” Toph fires back, grin turning sharp.</p>
<p>“That is what I always told him!” pipes Uncle Iroh as he disappears into the back, announcing to the teashop in general that he’ll be ‘right back.’</p>
<p>“Thanks, Uncle,” Zuko mutters, dryly, dumping his satchel on the chair next to Toph. Shucking off his coat to drape on the chair, he asks perfunctorily: “Mind if I work with you?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, just don’t yak my ear off,” Toph returns, knowing full well Zuko’s never yakked a day in his life.</p>
<p>Grinning, he goes to order his espresso with an additional two caffeine shots. The barista, Jet (who’s been surly toward Zuko when he accidentally turned him down; in Zuko’s defense, he didn’t realize Jet was asking him out) squints at Zuko like he’s some kind of monster because who orders espresso <em>with two shots </em>except for a zombie desperately trying to reanimate itself. But, Zuko knows he needs the caffeine-induced focus, like, <em>immediately, </em>and Jet shuffles away to make it<em>. </em></p>
<p>Making a careful study of the lemon cupcakes in the bakery display case as he waits, pretending he doesn’t feel Jet’s occasional glower, Zuko doesn’t notice another customer trotting into the shop until a voice at his elbow exclaims: “What are the odds—Dr. Sozin?”</p>
<p>And Zuko <em>knows </em>that voice; it’s the one voice he <em>desperately </em>doesn’t want to hear right now because—because—</p><hr/>
<p>Sokka didn’t <em>have</em> to say hello. He comes to this realization, however, only <em>after</em> the damnable words are from his mouth.</p>
<p>With how Zuko blinks, startled, Sokka realizes he could have performed the entirety of <em>The Lion King on Broadway </em>with a kick-line of chorus-boys, puppets, and real fucking lions, and Zuko wouldn’t have noticed unless directly addressed. Of course, Sokka did. Directly address him, that is (like an idiot).</p>
<p>Shifting as best he can with his cast and crutches, feeling overexposed under Zuko’s attention, Sokka offers: “Are you thinking about getting the lemon cupcakes? They’re pretty good with the blueberry tea, even though Jet makes them himself.”</p>
<p>Jet, the barista, shoots him a scowl from the espresso machine along with a half-hearted ‘fuck you, Imiq.’ Sokka wonders if this is a sign Jet and he are becoming friends. After the nasty break-up with his baby sister, Katara, Jet used to flat-out refuse to acknowledge Sokka’s entire existence. <em>But, </em>this<em> acknowledgment is definitely a step in the friendship-direction.</em></p>
<p>“Huh?” Zuko asks, eyebrows bunching. “What cupcakes?”</p>
<p>Sokka points at the bakery case. “Um, those cupcakes, the ones you were looking at?”</p>
<p>Zuko’s eyes dart to the cupcakes, returning just as quickly to Sokka as if magnetized. Sokka swallows, hunting around for another topic to offer. It’s extremely hard while every sensory receiver is sending messages to his brain that ‘Hey! Super-hot doctor is standing <em>right there! </em>Don’t fuck this up for us, kid; don’t go saying anything stupid that could embarrass yourself!’ Shockingly enough, awareness of the potential for his own dumbassery exponentially increasing the longer this conversation drags on doesn’t calm Sokka’s nerves.</p>
<p>Zuko’s gaze peels down. An exclamation: “Oh!”</p>
<p>“What?” Sokka asks dumbly, looking down and around, searching for what could possibly justify that sort of reaction, that little smile (<em>and there it is again, his smile, </em>Sokka thinks, his own dopey smile appearing; that small smile has only been the centerpiece of his fantasies for the entire week since meeting Zuko).</p>
<p>“Y-your shirt,” Zuko manages. “It’s from your—” Sokka watches Zuko swallow whatever he plans on saying next, watches him recalibrate his comment and Sokka wishes he knew what Zuko stopped himself from saying. Instead, Zuko offers: “It’s…uh, random, but isn’t your shirt from Willow Creek, California; that’s the uh, well, it’s the Bigfoot Capitol of the world, right?”</p>
<p>Sokka’s eyebrows climb as he holds his tee-shirt out; it’s dingy after continuous wearing in the year and a half since the Sasquatch special on <em>Cryptid: Decoded. </em>In his defense, the shirt is soft and Sokka has the fashion sense of a blind accountant, so a ratty Bigfoot shirt is the equivalent of runway ready for him. But, of all the things to fall from Dr. Zuko Sozin’s, M.D., mouth, Sokka never would have guessed ‘Bigfoot capitol of the world’ in a list of top one-thousand most-likely words, never mind the top one-hundred.</p>
<p>Yet, he said it.</p>
<p>And if Sokka hadn’t been smitten before, he is positively <em>enamored</em> now.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I got to visit there a few years ago for—” the words ‘my podcast’ die on his tongue, his memory flashing to the most recent ‘Chew and Chat,<em>’ </em>where Sokka wistfully described the perfect timbre of Zuko’s voice and the <em>absolute </em>splendor of Zuko’s amber eyes (which, now that he’s in close proximity, prove to be so much more splendiferous in person). Sokka aims for an evasion tactic: “Do you—are you, um, into Sasquatches?”</p>
<p>Zuko’s mouth quirks, growing wider than his typical little smile, and he straightens. The persona Sokka remembers from the office, confident and unassuming and saturated with overwhelming calm, returns to Zuko. “No, not Sasquatches in particular, but I’m fascinated by folklore and ghost stories. I guess it’s not what a doctor should be in to—” his eyes twinkle; Sokka shits you not, <em>they twinkle—</em>“but I thinks it’s fascinating. You know, I’ve always wanted to explore Graceland Cemetery in Bueno Park.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Sokka perks, the usual bright-eyed, red-cheeked enthusiasm that colors him whenever he catches a whiff of a potential podcast episode replacing his abashed blush. “Because we could totally go sometime, not as a date or anything, unless—?” he begins to ask, fishing for his phone in his pocket. It’s the perfect excuse to get Zuko’s number (!) but he fumbles, trying to negotiate the crutches, prying off his glove, and peeling back his coat to access his jean pockets.</p>
<p>“Your coffee,” Jet interrupts, sliding an espresso across the counter to Zuko’s waiting palm.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” Zuko returns and Jet nods back, slouching away. Zuko adopts an apologetic smile. “Listen, it was great to see you, Sokka, but I need to get back to my friend, so I should probably. . .”</p>
<p>“Oh um, right,” Sokka agrees, jamming his freshly retrieved phone back into his pocket. He knew a let-down when he heard it, but damnit, he doesn’t have any dignity, so he finds himself tacking on: “Um, maybe we could cemetery walking some other time?”</p>
<p>Zuko’s mouth twists; he shakes his head. “Probably not; doctor-patient confidentiality, you know. Seeing each other randomly is all right, but meeting up or exploring cemeteries is a dangerous line to walk. Especially with your leg. Sorry.” And, funnily enough, Zuko really <em>does</em> sound regretful.</p>
<p>Ignoring the plunge in his chest—how his heart bottomed out of his heels and currently digs a tunnel to the center of the Earth—Sokka hurriedly agrees. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Well, then we’ll just have to talk about ghouls when I come in for an appointment, huh?”</p>
<p>(<em>Whenever </em>that <em>is, </em>Sokka thinks. <em>Would it be worth it to break my other leg to see him?)</em></p>
<p>Zuko doesn’t reply immediately, his eyes flickering over Sokka’s face, as if noticing something, deciding something. His lips stretch and part into a smile; this smile, Sokka notices, is different. Though he’s only had two opportunities for Zuko Sozin Smile Observations™, Sokka knows <em>this</em> smile is rare: it’s open-mouthed, with teeth actually showing. A smile that requires every facility of facial capacity, eyes wrinkling, the bridge of the nose gathering, the cheeks pulling up. Sokka wishes he had binoculars to study it closer, a journal to scribble down notes.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Zuko says, “I’d like that.”</p>
<p>Sokka blinks once, twice, unaware he blinks at all, tracking Zuko as he weaves through the clusters of café tables and black-iron chairs, going to join a young woman and her seeing eye-dog. The girl greets him with a bunch to the shoulder and a question, lost to the blanketing din of the teashop’s other customers. From how Zuko blushes, not-quite looking back at Sokka, the woman must have asked who he talked to (or maybe Sokka’s imagination is just running wild. <em>Probably.)</em></p>
<p>Jet’s annoyed bark grounds him: “You gonna order something or not? Because you can get out if not; your cheesy feet are making me sick over here.”</p>
<p>(Sokka <em>knew </em>he’d regret confiding in Jet that he worries his feet stank more than feet ought to stink; he just didn’t think it’d be <em>so soon.)</em></p><hr/>
<p>“Welcome to another segment of ‘Chew and Chat,’ folks! Today, we’re not doing anything swanky—”</p>
<p>“You know us, we like to keep it real here on <em>Cryptid: Decoded,” </em>Sokka interjects, wryly, leaning across Aang to swipe up a piece of the Domino’s pizza. After Aang turned up in Sokka’s apartment with indigestion from too much free spicy falafel from his work (“There really is no such thing as a free lunch, huh?” Sokka commented while offering Aang a Tums, glass of water, and sympathetic pat on the head), the boys opted for a safe, tasteless bet: Domino’s.</p>
<p>Aang holds out the garlic butter sauce to Sokka as he says, “And we’ve got pizza from America’s favorite edible cardboard chain, Domino’s.”</p>
<p>“Though, to be fair,” Sokka adds, ladling a, frankly, <em>too </em>generous amount of garlic butter onto his plate, “They really stepped up their crust game a few years ago. The new dough really has no business being this good, but yet? We still ate their pizza back in the day, even though it was, as you said, cardboard, but they <em>didn’t </em>have to go so hard and they did. For us.”</p>
<p>“You want to give the good people the initial reaction then, Sokka?” Aang asks, popping another Tums into his mouth before taking an enthusiastic bite.</p>
<p>“Sure thing; I’d say it’s a solid ten-out-of-ten, which is on a scale based solely on what I expect from a Domino’s pizza.” Sokka dabs his slice into the garlic butter. “So, let’s jump on it, shall we, Aang?”</p>
<p>“Love to, Sokka.”</p>
<p>“We got a lot of great feedback from Monday’s episode about haunted Chicago, and we want to say how grateful we are for the responses. You guys are seriously so awesome about letting us know what you love—”</p>
<p> Aang mutters around a mouthful: “And what you hate.”</p>
<p>“—and we appreciate the feedback! It’s been noted, don’t worry: we want Chi-town and we want ghost Al Capone!”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you share where you got that idea, Sokka; how you <em>just so happened</em> to stumble across our Weird Chicago series, huh? Could it have been from a certain Doctor McDreamy?” Aang leans close to the microphone to ensure it picked up every consonant and vowel.</p>
<p>“I thought we agreed we wouldn’t call him that!” Sokka protests, his ears reddening but unable to fight his smile. No matter how he concentrated on slackening it, his muscles ignore him—too pleased to be talking about Dr. Zuko Sozin, M.D., the one thing he never wants to <em>stop </em>talking about.</p>
<p>Aang cackles, as if he tricked Sokka into some great admission on air. Which, he sort-of it had.</p>
<p>“We’ve got confirmation, folks! Mark it in your calendars for future generations to see, this is a historic day: Sokka admitted that he has a boner for the bone doctor. He’s got all the names of Doctor McDreamy’s babies planned out, and how they’re going to hunt Bigfoot together for family vaca—"</p>
<p>“Fan mail time!” Sokka exclaims, diving for his laptop and the podcast’s email account open on the monitor. “Okay, let’s see what’s been sent in this week!” he jabbers, pulling up the first unread email at random. “Alright! This is an email from ‘the Blue Spirit.’—thanks for sending something, Blue Spirit! Much appreciated! They write: ‘Hello Sokka and Aang, Firstly, I wanted to say how much I love your show; I listen to it every day as I head to work, and it’s like having two of my friends chatting with me as I travel, except about ghosts and ghouls, instead of weather or traffic.’ Ah, that’s sweet; thanks, dude!”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Aang chimes, hoots subsiding enough to allow him to string together an intelligible contribution: “Sokka and I really think of you listeners as our friends. You’re the Ghouligans, the ghoul tribe, and we couldn’t do any of this without you.”</p>
<p>“Exactly, and I personally really like the idea that we’re adding a little bit of mystery and intrigue to your morning commute.” Sokka wiggles his eyebrows as he says ‘intrigue,’ Aang has pointed out that, of the one-hundred-thirty-eight times Sokka has said ‘intrigue’ on <em>Cryptid: Decoded, </em>he has never (not once) <em>not </em>wiggled his eyebrows for ‘intrigue.’ Sokka continues: “Alright, back to the email. ‘I know that part of the draw to your show is that you guys look at the facts and lore behind myths and ghosts as if they <em>are </em>real, and treat them respectfully, but do either of you really believe anything you’re talking about? Best, Blue Spirit.’”</p>
<p>“Huh, that’s a good question,” Aang replies, wiping his fingers on a napkin (Katara insists they use napkins for ‘Chew and Chat,’ otherwise their food privileges are revoked). “And I’m kind of surprised we haven’t gotten it before; three years and it’s just now coming up? Kind of crazy. But what do you think, Sokka?”</p>
<p>“I’m not sure; I’ve actually caught myself thinking about this a lot, especially as I’m doing research. The cryptids are undeniably fake, but I think when it comes to extra-terrestrials and ghosts—” Sokka shrugs, and knows the audience will understand what the loaded silence means “—I want to believe, ya know? Not in a crackpot, energy rods kind of way—”</p>
<p>“Don’t be mean to energy rods.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be as mean as I want! Fuck ‘em!” Sokka fires back and Aang snorts around a sip of water, partly choking. Thumping him on the back, Sokka continues: “But anyway, I want to believe because there’s so many crazy coincidences and happenstances that happen every day in natural world that, like, what’s to keep it from crossing over into the supernatural?”</p>
<p>“Right, too much unexplainable shit; like freak accidents or freak recoveries. Is it fate? Is it just humanity?” Aang tacks on. “The human brain can <em>trick </em>the body into thinking it has an illness, or thinking it’s okay, and that’s some pretty crazy shit, right? Who’s to say we can’t will ourselves into being ghosts—or maybe just will ourselves into seeing ghosts?”</p>
<p>“I think what the TL;DR is,” Sokka offers, “Is that there’s so much Aang and I don’t know that all we know is that we genuinely don’t know. The world is a pretty dark place without demons and vampires, though, but somehow the mystery of it all offers a bit of light. A light that lets us know that we’re not alone, and maybe it’s okay to have something be unexplainable, and, at the end of the day, all we can be is humans looking to make sense of the world.”</p>
<p>“But think about it for one second: vampires as a concept? Really cool; turning into a bat, sucking blood, <em>sparkling</em>? Honestly, sounds like a trip.” Aang chews on pizza drenched in garlic butter sauce as if somehow proving a point. “Speaking of human bodies though, how’s the leg holding up, Sokka, old buddy, old pal?”</p>
<p>Sokka clicks his tongue. “Still attached to me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”</p>
<p>(Later that afternoon, as Sokka washes the plates from the ‘Chew and Chat,’ his own words run circuits through his mind: he wonders how Zuko would respond to that question, if he believed along with being interested. If he harbors even a tiny little sliver of wonder for mystery like Sokka; if Zuko would laugh at Sokka for his want to believe. For some reason, it’s important to Sokka and somehow, Sokka’s confident he wouldn’t laugh. Sokka’s confident he’d talk along, philosophizing about truth, and mystery, and humanity with that little smile playing on his lips. He wants to talk until the conversation turns nonsensical, until Sokka can coax that rare, beautiful full-smile back. Sokka wants to make it stay there, Zuko happy, forever.)</p>
<p>(And maybe ‘forever’ is a bit much to be thinking about for the doctor who turned you down.)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Zuko accidentally gets himself invited to Aang's party, there are many dogs, and Sokka tells his viewers about the generic-brand version of Moaning Myrtle.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*looks under one (1) rock* A-ha! I've found the plot! </p><p>My deepest love and gratitude to my lovely beta and dear friend, @cinnamoncookies. You save me from embarrassing myself. Constantly.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Okay, so maybe Zuko lied about patient-doctor confidentiality. There’s no laws or doctor oaths or medicine gods who will smite him if he befriends a patient, as long as he doesn’t tell anyone the severity of Sokka’s injury, how it happened, or his blood type. Or start dating Sokka until after he’s no longer in Zuko’s care (though no one <em>said</em> anything about dating except for Zuko’s overactive imagination).          </p><p>And yeah, okay, so Zuko panicked after barely dodging an awkward explanation about how he knew the Bigfoot Capitol of the World <em>and then </em>gave a half-truth about his own interest in the paranormal (he never mentions his sleep paralysis; he doesn’t want anyone’s pity. Doesn’t want to explain how hearing about real ghouls makes it easier to battle his paralysis demon).</p><p>Okay, so the proposed (<em>maybe</em>?) hangout in a cemetery was too much, too fast. Too dangerously close to his deluded fantasies of ghost-exploring with one half of <em>Cryptid: Decoded</em>. He couldn’t handle the knowledge that it wouldn’t really be a date, even though he ached for it to be. Even though his doctor-honor told him it absolutely could not be. And besides, Sokka only asked to be nice. Someone as gorgeous as Sokka would never stoop to someone like him; Zuko <em>knows</em> Sokka saw the scar, there’s no way anyone could be interested after getting an eye-full of that. Surely the whole ‘Dr. McDreamy’ from yesterday’s ‘<em>Chew and Chat</em>’ was a comedic bit? The only time the boys talk about their romantic inclinations is when Aang drops vague hints about being in a love with a girl who doesn’t know he’s alive, but it’s always as a joke and always foundationless. Zuko knows them—<em>wishes </em>Sokka could know him, too—but he won’t allow himself to get his hopes up. He’d only be hurting himself.</p><p>(<em>But they did answer my fan-question, </em>Zuko can’t help thinking, hope fluttering in hs chest like a fledgling bird on new wings. Then, in a voice sounding suspiciously like his sister that squelches his bare hope, he scolds himself: <em>But they didn’t know it was from </em>you, <em>dumb-dumb.)</em></p><p>And, yes, okay, maybe Zuko’s really talented at self-sabotage. So good, in fact, he’s agonizing about his horrible life choices a <em>literal</em> week later.</p><p>After Saturday morning class, Toph insists they and their dogs stop by the Jasmine Dragon to reward themselves for a kickass Shaolin-style Kung Fu lesson before heading to the dog park. It’s kind of their ritual after Zuko guest-instructs.</p><p> As Toph chats with the Saturday barista (thankfully not Jet, but rather a woman Zuko <em>swears </em>couldn’t <em>actually </em>be named Smellerbee, right?), Zuko absently rubs at his knuckles, easing away the faint soreness from demonstrating punches to Toph’s students, and stares at the entrance as if sheer can compel Sokka through the door. As if he could somehow get a second chance at that conversation, and accept going to a cemetery on a not-date with a hot boy like a normal, functional person.</p><p><em>Err, well.</em> You know what he means.</p><p>“Will you stop thinking so hard, you’re giving me a headache,” Toph grouses, shoving the iced green tea latte into Zuko’s stomach. She tosses a farewell over her shoulder to Smellerbee, her own triple shot of espresso in hand.</p><p>Busily fishing out his metal straw from his satchel, Zuko plays dumb: “What do you mean?”</p><p>Toph snorts. It’s one of her favorite, most eloquent forms of communication. “Oh please, you’ve been a grumpy-pants since morning and you were scaring some of the students. I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she says, Badger and Druk leading them out of the Jasmine Dragon and into a blast of March chill, “Some of them need a little fear in them, but you were glaring. I think you made one of them shit their pants.”</p><p>“How did you—?” Zuko begins to ask, but then decides it’s not the most pertinent question on hand. Knowing he’s proving her point, but not particularly caring, he mutters, “My pants aren’t grumpy.”</p><p>Ignoring Toph’s snort, he frowns down at the crooked-wagging tail of Druk. Made even tinier by Badger, a golden Labrador with the energy of a popular cheerleader and kept fit by Toph’s weekend Ironman training, Druk is about the size of a postage stamp.</p><p>It’s impossible to say who adopted who: when Zuko went to the Humane Society the literal day after taking the MCAT in undergrad, Druk identified Zuko as a kindred spirit. The connection between them is readily evident: half of Zuko’s face is red and shiny from a scar, half of Druk’s body is red and shiny, also from a scar. Abused and burned by a dog fighting ring, Druk had been rescued and brought back from the brink of death. The black fur from the base of his pointed ear (the other ear flops, giving him a perpetually confused look) to the base of his whip-cord tail had been burned off, and now only grew in clumps.</p><p>With one leg shorter than the rest, making his walk ungainly, and his parentage decidedly ‘mutt,’ a Humane Society worker told Zuko most people viewed Druk as a hard dog to love. Zuko vehemently disagreed and adopted him on the spot.</p><p>Sipping absently at his latte, still watching the continuous metronome of Druk’s tail, Zuko mumbles: “And anyway, how did you know? I thought I was hiding it pretty well.”</p><p>“Eh,” Toph makes a noise at the back of her throat. “You’re pretty easy to read, Sparky. You’ve been off all week. Ever since I saw you last Friday. Did something happen?”</p><p>Zuko represses a shudder at the flash of memory: last Friday. The disastrous conversation with Sokka. His toes curl in his boots, his fingers in his gloves, bracing for the habitual cringe that follows. As they stop at a crosswalk, waiting for their turn while Badger dutifully sits at Toph’s side, Zuko says, (<em>totally not</em>) squeakily: “Happen? Uh, no, no of course not. Maybe it’s the weather, it’s been so overcast—”</p><p>“You’re lying,” Toph interrupts, not even bothering to let him stumble through his weak-ass excuse.</p><p>Zuko makes a pitiful, throaty noise. Druk stares up at him, head tilted in confusion. Scratching the short hairs on Druk’s scalp, Zuko concedes: “Yeah, okay, it’s uh, this guy. He was at the Jasmine Dragon last week.” Suddenly, the green tea latte tastes funny in his mouth, a shiver wracking him (or maybe he just shouldn’t order cold drinks in below-freezing temperatures).</p><p>“Oh, I <em>did</em> think it was weird you talked to someone else besides me and Uncle—” Zuko’s not sure when Toph started referring to Iroh as ‘uncle’ as well, but it’s been months now and it only seems fitting: he’s everyone’s uncle— “That was him?”</p><p>Zuko’s small squawk-shriek-thing of panic is answer enough.</p><p>“I can’t believe we’ve reached the point that we’re gossiping about our fucking crushes. Took us long enough, huh? Is he hot?” Toph grins down at the pavement in her characteristic manic grin. Zuko used to think it was a bit evil and looking at her now, maybe he still does. “Who is he? What’s his name? Can we social media stalk him? Get his social security number and bank account—”</p><p>Desperately trying to retain the threads of conversation, Zuko demands: “Wait, why are we suddenly trying to commit fraud?”</p><p> Toph ignores him. “Actually, I think he knows one of the other coffee shop regulars who’s a friend of mine. Is his voice kind of loud and annoying? It sounded familiar.”</p><p>Zuko can’t help the little, dopey, lop-sided smile worming across his face, thinking of Sokka’s voice. <em>It sounds so much richer in person, like warm honey in tea or a heated blanket on a winter day, </em>darts through Zuko’s head before he can chase it off. Without realizing it, he sighs, “Yeah.”</p><p>“Oh my god, you <em>like </em>annoying-voice guy?!” Toph crows. Zuko makes a sort-of mournful chirp sound. Druk thumps his tail. Toph prattles on: “I can always hear him cracking stupid jokes across the café, even when I have my fucking headphones on!” She aims a punch for Zuko’s shoulder. “You’ve got weird taste in guys.”</p><p>“Thanks, I guess,” Zuko mutters, rubbing his arm. He can feel his ears flaming red, and it’d only be a matter of time before the blush seeps onto the rest of his face. He hates when he blushes, hates how it draws attention to his scar. As the light changes and they set off across the road, Zuko tries to salvage his dignity: “And I’m not interested in him. Or, well, he’s not interested in me, at least.”</p><p>(<em>Through no one’s fault but my own, </em>Zuko can’t but think, savagely.)</p><p>Badger leads them to safety on the other side of the street and practically herds them to the park’s wrought-iron gates, the dog-park beyond. Toph follows Badger, replying, “Whatever lies you want to tell yourself. You know, he comes in on weekdays a lot. You could just ditch work and stop by sometime. Say a pick-up line, go out to dinner, realize you’re soulmates, and have wild, steamy—”</p><p>“Please don’t finish that thought—!"</p><p>A lowing swallows Zuko’s flustered near-shout.</p><p>“What—?” he manages to choke out before, what appears to be, a roving cloud descends upon them at very uncloud-like speeds. Between one blink and the next, a giant fluffy dog slips from the barely open gates of the dog-park and practically charges Toph. “Toph! Look out!” Zuko shouts, making to shove her behind him and use himself as a meat-shield.</p><p>“You realize I can’t ‘look out’ right?” Toph returns, dryly, shoving off Zuko’s hands and stepping around him to submit herself to the white dog as it places its hoof-sized paws on her shoulder and licking her across the face with a great, velvety pink tongue. Around a giggle, she greets: “Hi, Appa, I’m happy to see you too!”</p><p>The lowing bark again, which Zuko now realizes is not actually from a North American bison, just a dog the size of one. After Toph pushes Appa off her, he goes to sniff Badger, who’s standing patiently at Toph’s side, as if to demonstrate how a proper dog with a job (not some licking menace to society) should behave. Druk, meanwhile, attaches himself to Zuko’s leg, growling fiercely and shaking uncontrollably.</p><p>“Appa belongs to that friend from the Jasmine Dragon I mentioned, you know, the one who knows annoying-voice guy,” Toph explains, burying her fingers in Appa’s white fur and cooing: “Who’s the best boy?”</p><p>Badger looks betrayed.</p><p>“Appa! Don’t go charging people, you might—oh, hey Toph!”</p><p>Zuko glances up from Appa happily drooling on Toph to find a slender young man jogging towards them, a beanie with a blue arrow motif stuffed atop his head. Younger than Zuko, though maybe one or two inches taller, the man has the sort of open, honest face speaking of easy charisma, infectious warmth, and quick laughter. Zuko knows him immediately.</p><p>“When you said ‘friend,’ you meant <em>Aang?” </em>Zuko hisses to Toph before he can think better of it.</p><p>“How do you know Twinkletoes?” Toph replies, brows scrunching.</p><p>Before either question can be answered, Aang reaches them and clips a leather leash onto Appa’s collar. Reeling him back with his entire bodyweight, Aang smiles apologetically at Druk and Zuko. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare your dog. I think Appa smelled Toph and Badger and got excited. He jumped the fence. Again.”</p><p>“Get a hold of your dog, dude,” Toph replies, rolling her eyes. “He’s a therapy dog, shouldn’t he be better trained?”</p><p>Rubbing the back of his head, the beanie inching up to reveal skin where his hairline should be, Aang replies, “Yeah, but you can’t blame him, can you? I mean, we all have to unwind and cut loose from work.”</p><p>“Aang, he’s a dog.”</p><p>The bantering back-and-forth falls into an ambient noise to Zuko, his ears seeming to suddenly be stuffed. His brain whirs.</p><p>It’s been alluded throughout multiple podcast episodes and <em>‘Chew and Chat’ </em>segments, but both Aang and Sokka have never outright said that Aang lost his hair to chemo treatments. Seeing him now, tugging his beanie back down over his bald head as he laughs with Toph, Zuko feels like he’s stolen some precious piece of information he never should have been privy to.</p><p>He’s a <em>fan</em>—a super fan, if he’s really being honest—listening to each episode religiously, following fan boards and posting on discussions to theorize and stitch together little tidbits the boys drop about their lives. But seeing Aang, seeing the confirmation of something fans only speculate about, feels like cheating. Like Zuko’s transcended some sacred pact between Aang and Sokka and the audience.</p><p><em>I need to get out of here, </em>Zuko decides, quite firmly.</p><p>Only, Druk has other ideas.</p><p>He’s detached from Zuko’s leg and has taken cautious steps to sniff at Appa. As if sensing he must earn approval, Appa holds still, and Druk gives a ‘woof.’ Both begin to sniff each other in earnest. “Hey, looks like our dogs like each other!” Aang says, turning his smile on Zuko. It’s like looking at the human personification of a solar panel, the grin all sunshine and renewable energy. Zuko wishes he had sunglasses. “My dog’s Appa, and I’m Aang! You’re a friend of Toph’s, right?”</p><p>“Uh,” is all Zuko can manage for a solid thirty seconds. <em>Get yourself together, Sozin, </em>he scolds internally, <em>You’re a doctor! You can be a </em>little<em> more intelligent than that! </em>“Uh, um, Zuko here, and this is Druk.”</p><p>Zuko misses how Aang rapid-fire blinks at his name, how a flitting grin of recognition pulls across his face before hastily being tucked away. He misses how Aang nudges Toph, forgetting she can’t see his waggling eyebrows (or perhaps trusting her intuition enough to know she <em>feels </em>those eyebrows). Zuko’s too busy watching the dogs interact, Badger still abstaining with dignity, and too busy trying not to self-implode.</p><p>Perhaps, if Zuko did notice, he wouldn’t have allowed the combined force of Toph and Aang to talk him into attending a ‘small party, no big deal’ that Aang’s hosting next weekend. They’d been chatting for a good forty-five minutes, lulling on the benches in the dog-park as Druk, Appa, and a liberated Badger romped around, and Zuko had just allowed himself to relax—had just convinced himself <em>not </em>running away is maybe okay—when Aang springs it on him.</p><p>Toph and Aang extract his agreement ten minutes later, after differing and demurring, but then Zuko never really stood a chance. Together, they are fiercer than a windstorm, more unstoppable than an earthquake, and unless Zuko could figure out how to stop a natural disaster, he’s left with no choice but to helplessly agree.</p>
<hr/><p>Appa’s still wearing his therapy dog vest when Aang trundles into the Imiq siblings’ apartment, the two of them arriving on a burst of cold air from the unheated hallway outside. Katara and Sokka’s building, once a looming mansion squashed into Lincoln Park and shaded by ancient oak trees, had been butchered into apartments without care: keeping both the charms of old Chicago architecture, evident in the crown-molding and slim-plank wood floors, and its curses, like the perpetual draftiness.</p><p>Shucking off his (responsibly sourced) fleece coat, mittens, scarf, and boots, trying his best not to track a small ice flow across the squeaky woof floor, Aang practically collapses on the living room couch. The couch, a yard-sale find back during Katara’s undergrad days down in Normal, Illinois, had survived many hardships, but an icy-wet Appa might be the breaking point.</p><p>“Chicago hates me,” Aang declares, curling in on himself to try to regain body heat. “I swear it was sunny and nice <em>all day, </em>but as soon as I step outside, it’s a deluge.”</p><p>Barely rescuing a pile of research from being dripped on by Aang, Sokka grumbles, “Can you <em>not </em>get everything wet?” His leg, cast in a hard plaster and covered in Sharpie’d signatures from friends, is propped on the coffee table. Aang’s name, along with a little doodle of both him and Sokka, has a place of honor on Sokka’s shin.</p><p>From the apartment’s tiny galley kitchen, Katara’s voice floats in: “Be nice, Sokka! Aang’s already miserable. I’ll make you some coffee to warm-up, Aang.”</p><p>Sitting up, feeling in his toes sufficiently regained, Aang very carefully doesn’t look at Sokka as he calls back: “Thanks, that’d be great.” Because if he looked at Sokka, he’d blush and he doesn’t need to give further confirmation that he’s helplessly in love with Katara. Sokka’s at a weird impasse where he can’t decide whether to make fun of Aang or be grossed out because <em>it’s his sister. </em>Either reaction, Aang doesn’t want to deal with it.</p><p>So, he schools his face-splitting smile whenever Katara’s around, tries to sooth the jitters from his nerves, and does his best to be her <em>friend </em>and nothing more. Sometimes it requires conjuring excuses (like fetching an old towel to dry off Appa) just to avoid accidentally grazing her fingers with his. Sometimes it means clutching at a coffee mug coiling with steam and hovering behind the coach just to avoid sitting next to Sokka on the couch (and therefore right across from Katara), or next to Katara on the loveseat.</p><p>(A ‘loveseat’ on principle is <em>not </em>where friends sit together).</p><p>Peering over Sokka’s shoulder as he taps away at his computer, Aang asks, “Is the script ready?”</p><p>“Just about,” Sokka replies, tongue poking out between his teeth as his fingers fly. A body of facts and data crowds the computer monitor, the cursor chugging at the head of a stream of near-unintelligible notes. Sokka’s the true brains behind <em>Cryptid: Decoded; </em>he provides the stories, the background lore, and scientific debunking to the ghosts and ghouls, monsters and beasts that populate the podcast. Aang’s there to offer moral support, real-time reactions, dumb jokes and, on the off chance they’re recording on location, spiritual readings. As he will tonight, at the Athenaeum.</p><p>“I just found a blog post about a lady who encountered the ghost in the girls’ bathroom,” Sokka informs, finishing typing with a great flourish.</p><p>Katara snorts. “What, like Moaning Myrtle?”</p><p>Aang doesn’t laugh too loudly<em>. </em>He laughs at quite an appropriate volume, <em>thank you.</em></p><p>“Yeah, actually.” Sokka absently scratches at Appa’s head when he comes to lean against his legs, his white fur sticking up at random angles in great tuffs from Aang’s vigorous towel drying. “I guess she’s this little girl who haunts the bathroom, and she’ll peek out at people as they’re washing their hands. Even happens when a lot of people are in there, so there are multiple witnesses.”</p><p>“Oh, cool,” Aang enthuses. “I don’t think we’ve had a case like that before.”</p><p>“And you’re sure you guys want to go tonight? I mean, Aang looks half-drowned,” Katara asks. It’s not exactly what you want your crush observing. Yet, Aang blushes anyway, as if getting caught in a sudden maelstrom of sleet and misery on his walk from Saturday school to the Imiq apartment is the equivalent of buying a new shirt or wearing a new cologne.</p><p>Puffing his chest in a show of fortitude, Aang assures, “Not even sleet can stop the Ghoul Bros from searching out the truth!” Then, with a sheepish smile, he adds: “Also, we have your car to get there. Thanks for that.”</p><p>“And I think the manager of the Athenaeum would kill me if we canceled. She moved heaven and earth to get us a slot,” Sokka pipes, blissfully ignorant of Aang’s failed attempts at being impressive.</p><p>“Yeah, please avoid being murdered,” Katara intones dryly.</p><p>“Yes ma’am, anything for you,” Aang jokes before he can stop himself, before he can consider how uncomfortably close to the truth it is. Coughing, trying to disguise the slip, he adds: “Are you sure you’re cool with watching Appa?”</p><p>Hearing his human use his name, Appa pads to sit on Aang’s feet. His great tail thumps against the floor, and Aang wonders if they’ll get a noise complaint from the downstairs neighbors. Again. Scratching Appa’s ears, Aang adds, “I swear I’m not just using you for free dog-watching.”</p><p>Katara fixes him with a smile, her blue eyes pushing up into little crescents of twin moons, a witch’s moon powerful enough to enchant him. “I don’t mind! Appa and I are buddies. Even though he slobbers, it helps that he’s so cute. Just like his owner.”</p><p>Aang’s brain might have imploded, sparks flying out of his ears. He’s not sure. Though, he <em>is</em> sure he gawks because Katara’s luminescent smile disintegrates into a concerned eyebrow furrow. But how can he <em>not stare? </em>How can he rationally remind himself to close his mouth, to not gawk? Katara called him ‘cute’ (and maybe implied he slobbered like Appa? He can’t quite decide) and that <em>has </em>to mean something. She wouldn’t casually drop that she thinks Aang’s cute, would she?</p><p><em>Unless I’m so thoroughly friend-zoned, I’m more ‘dog-cute’ than ‘potential-boyfriend-material-cute,’ </em>Aang thinks, rather depressingly.</p><p> Everyone’s saved from the situation (and themselves) when Sokka surges to his feet, announcing he’s done and that they need to gather the equipment bags. They have a podcast to record, and Aang gratefully follows orders as a ready excuse to whatever <em>something</em> happened between him and Katara. He’s so single-mindedly focused on chucking duffel bags bursting with mics and stands and cords, he entirely forgets to mention his run-in at the dog-park this morning.</p><p><em>But then</em>, Aang decides when he does remember sometime later, <em>Sokka always did love surprises.</em></p>
<hr/><p><em>Transcript from </em>Cryptid: Decoded, <em>Ep. 77: The Athenaeum</em></p><p>
  <em>Retrieved from: Sokka’s Schweaty Man-Pony, A D/C fan blog</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Courtesy of user Teo (@gimli_legolas4ever)</em>
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</p><p><strong>Sokka</strong>: Hey humanoids, cryptids, ghouls, and extraterrestrials: its ya boys, the Ghoul Bros, here with another episode of <em>Cryptid: Decoded</em>, your one-stop channel for digging deep into the weird and strange. That’s Aang—</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: And that’s Sokka! Today we have a very special episode for you. Would you introduce it for us, Sokka?</p><p><strong>Sokka</strong>: Of course, very kind of you to ask, Aang. Today, we’re on location at the Athenaeum theater in Chicago and, for those of you too lazy to hop on Google to look it up, it’s one of the oldest continuously operating theaters in the city.</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: We’re talking older than H.H. Holmes, older than Chicago Fire, and—as you probably have guessed—overrun with ghosts and ghost stories.</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>So grab a blanket and gather your courage, because today, we’re discussing the chilling history of the Athenaeum.</p><p>[<em>Crytid: Decoded </em>theme music plays]</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>So, for any new listeners out there, you’re maybe wondering what the purpose of a podcast going on-location is, especially when you can’t see us. Besides you guys just having to trust us when we say we have faces for radio—</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: Or podcasts.</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>[laughing] Right, or podcasts. Besides that, my good buddy Aang here is something of an empath.</p><p><strong>Aang: </strong>It’s an occupational hazard, I guess. Comes with the territory of being a therapist.</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Okay, Aang, we get you have a day job. Stop rubbing it in.</p><p><strong>Aang: </strong>[laughing]</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong><em>Anyway, </em>Aang is an empath, and can pick up on residual emotions or vibes or whatever.</p><p><strong>Aang: </strong>Just to be clear, I’m not a medium or a psychic. I’ve never seen a ghost, though it’d be cool if I did. It’s more like I do a vibe check of a place.</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Which speaking of, it’s time for… [the “Aang’s Vibe Check” jingle blares into our ear drums; <em>like, seriously guys, can you not check your levels??]…</em>Aang’s vibe check! Aang, give the listeners at home a description and general vibe of this place.</p><p><strong>Aang: </strong>Well, we’re sitting in the second-floor hallway of the theater. The stage is actually on this floor, so we’re sitting through one of the breezeway doors from backstage, with a freight elevator on one end and the entrance to the stage at the other. When we were setting up our equipment, I was getting this overwhelming sense of, like, <em>foreboding </em>from the door to the stage and I asked if we could keep an eye on it. So, we set up our chairs so we can look at the doors. They’re pretty standard metal doors with metal turn-knobs, and then those bars on the other side to release the lock. Nothing special, but I keep looking at it and expecting it to creep open at any second.</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Yeah, it’s really interesting, because the theater manager, Marcy, who’s sitting here with us [muffled sound of someone saying ‘hi guys’ away from the mics]—she says ‘hello’ by the way—Marcy mentioned something crazy about that door.</p><p><strong>Aang: </strong>Right! She said the only supposedly ‘evil’ spirit in the theater is of a janitor who hung himself behind the door. It’s like this little air-lock thing between this hallway and the stage, and I guess he was found during a show.</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>That’s taking the ‘break a leg’ phrase a little too far.</p><p><strong>Aang: </strong>Huh?</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>You know, like the theater-people way of saying ‘good luck’—?</p><p><strong>Aang: </strong>No, no, I get it, it was just stupid [muffled sound of Sokka saying ‘fuck you, dude’]. We don’t really know <em>why </em>he’s an evil spirit, just that he likes to play mean tricks on people during shows. Anyway, so the vibes are being overwhelmed with the feeling from Mr. Janitor-Guy. But, other than that, as we were getting a tour of the rest of the building from Marcy, it felt like the theater is a really loved place.</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>But ‘loved place’ has never once made a good story, so let’s get into the ‘ghouls and ghosts’ instead! We got one hella of a story, ghouligans: from creepy janitors to the theater’s very own Moaning Myrtle! Stay tuned! But first, we’re going to jump to a little bit of history first . . . <em>(transcript continues on next page)</em></p>
<hr/><p>Zuko’s having a case of the Mondays. Everything that can go wrong <em>is </em>going wrong: the <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>episode is late being posted, leaving Zuko without anything to listen to on his morning commute, and the office is positively inundated with humanity. Mai, the Physician’s Assistant, muttered something about how everyone in the Chicago Metropolitian area lost their minds over the weekend, deciding to break their ribs or femurs on stairs slick with sleet. Considering Zuko spent the entirety of his morning fielding dumb questions, making casts, and resetting bones, he could only wearily nod.</p><p>The day only continued on its steep nose-dive when he managed to extract himself from appointments, citing a lunch break, and visit Dr. Jee’s clinic just up the street.</p><p>Dr. Jee had volunteered to act as Zuko’s assistant on the clinical trials for the latest Phoenix Pharmaceutical super drug: a painkiller that promised immediate relief for patients suffering from broken bones and inflammation. Not anything groundbreaking, in theory, save it would be marketed for far less than its competition, turn a major profit, and therefore boost Phoenix Pharma into the major league companies along with other heavy hitters like Novartis and Johnson &amp; Johnson.</p><p>At least, that’s what Ozai predicted when he called Zuko and ordered him to take on the role of head researcher for the drug’s clinical trials.</p><p>Yet, neither Dr. Jee nor Zuko were encouraged by the results so far, and somehow Zuko kept wondering if it was his fault. He’s the son of Phoenix’s CEO, trained to be a doctor with the intention of returning to Dallas and heading up the Research and Development department. Yet, here he is, getting dud results on his first major project: the drugs were simply ineffective, the placebo prescriptions doing more good for the trials’ patients without the alarming side-effects of dizziness and hallucinations from the real drug.</p><p>When Zuko hurries into Dr. Jee’s lab, crumbs from his croissant for lunch littering his white coat, he’s met with a frown. Dr. Jee’s salt-and-pepper mustache wriggles as it often does when he’s disappointed. “Dr. Sozin, good to see you,” he begins. Zuko nods back, knowing Dr. Jee will get to the point immediately. He doesn’t disappoint: “I fear we’ve reached a conclusive result.”</p><p>Zuko’s mouth dries. He can guess what Dr. Jee will say, though he dearly wishes he couldn’t. Still, wishes aren’t reality, and it doesn’t keep Dr. Jee from pronouncing: “The drug’s no good. We can’t in good consciousness send this to market, or even get FDA approval.”</p><p>“I was worried about that.” Zuko admits. “But what am I going to tell my father?”</p>
<hr/><p>Monday has the potential for looking up when Zuko finally trundles home, compartmentalizing the alarming results (or lack thereof) as a problem for another day. <em>Perhaps</em>, Zuko decides, bending to greet an excited Druk who meets him at his apartment door, <em>perhaps I’ll call him first thing tomorrow morning.</em> Ozai’s one of those horrible morning people. He’s less likely to yell, curse, or disown Zuko right after his morning coffee.</p><p>After taking Druk on a walk and replacing his work clothes with flannel pants, fuzzy socks, and a worn tee-shirt from his high school marching band days, he’s finally able to pull up the <em>Cyptid: Decoded </em>page. The new episode has been uploaded.</p><p>It takes a moment for Spotify to load, giving time for Zuko to root out his Airpods and ladle decaf coffee grounds into the machine. As he extracts a wok from the cupboard, preparing to make his usual Monday-night dinner of stir-fry (because, Zuko realizes quite depressingly, he’s adult enough to have a fixed dinner menu), Sokka’s voice buzzes into his eardrums: “Hey humanoids, cryptids, ghouls, and extraterrestrials: its ya boys, the Ghoul Bros, here with another episode of <em>Cryptid: Decoded</em>, your one-stop channel for digging deep into the weird and strange.”</p><p>Zuko can’t help grinning, the introduction long since memorized, as he recasts it in Sokka’s real-life voice, stripping away the tinny, whiny quality the recording equipment gives and pretending like his coffee-warm voice is speaking directly to him; as if Sokka stood at Zuko’s side, the two making Monday night stir-fry to share before curling up on the couch to watch a show, or the news, or just to unpack their long days. As if they were boyfriends and—</p><p><em>And stop it, </em>Zuko scolds, <em>You’re never going to see him again because you’re not going to the party, and you’re not going to drop by the Jasmine Dragon to see if he’s there. </em>He’d only be inviting embarrassment, and Zuko doesn’t need to purposefully put himself in situations to cause lasting mortification. He can give himself life-long trauma all on his own, <em>thank you</em>.</p><p>Runaway thoughts thoroughly reined in, he toggles back ten seconds in the podcast. Aang begins his explanation of being an empath again, this time with Zuko actually listening. Turning on the heat below the pan, dolloping in a generous amount of olive oil and salt, Zuko begins the business of cubing the pork. He grins down at Druk’s attentive stare, silently begging for a nibble.</p><p>Zuko continues cooking and listening, bobbing his head at the theme song and occasional fan-favorite jingles. Druk gobbles down the stray pieces of pork when Zuko shakes the wok too vigorously, though it doesn’t satisfy his begging. He settles on Zuko’s lap when he flops on the couch to eat dinner. His brown eyes track Zuko’s fork as it travels back and forth, back and forth, scooping up stir-fry in rote-memory motions. Zuko’s too transfixed by the tale of the bathroom ghost at the Athenaeum to notice Druk’s deepening despair.</p><p>He’s nearly through the podcast, only five minutes left, when Sokka’s voice lowers as he presumably leans closer to the mic. “And finally, our last story of this sacred theatrical temple, the tale we alluded to at the beginning: the demonic janitor who guards the entrance to the backstage.”</p><p>Completely undermining the gravity of Sokka’s declaration, Aang asks, voice piping in brightly, “He’s really giving janitors everywhere a bad name. Like, I’ve personally never met a mean janitor. Do you remember Jeff from high school? The dude was a bro.”</p><p>“Oh yeah! We Stan Jeff! He didn’t care that we got the band room good and stinky during band camp,” Sokka enthuses, and Zuko imagines his smile stretched wild. <em>And really, it’s enough that I even </em>know <em>what that smile looks like now. It really is. It’s fine. </em>None of his lies feel palpable, all with jagged edges and sitting awkwardly in his brain. Like he’s trying to force in a piece from an entirely different puzzle.</p><p>“And do you remember when we dumped that cooler of Gatorade down the hall to make a slip-and-slide?” Aang prattles on. Whenever the boys mention their shared band camp days—‘high school glory days,’ Sokka once said, when he and Aang explained how they met twelve years ago, but that it was marching in the low brass section that <em>really </em>solidified their friendship—the likelihood of Aang branching off on a tangent for minutes on end increases exponentially.</p><p>Sokka snorts. “Do I remember? My dear, Aang, how could I possibly forget—”</p><p>The podcast’s audio cuts off abruptly, leaving Zuko frowning and staring down at his phone. He tries tapping at the play button, but there’s no reaction. A beat, then the screen winks to the incoming caller page and his ringer blasts through his Airpods. He jumps, heart beating wildly, his last few bites of stir-fry leaping from his plate. He stares, horror rounding his eyes: his irritated tapping made his phone, prehistoric and constantly opening apps after freezing for dragging seconds, think he wanted to answer the phone call.</p><p>The phone call labeled ‘Ozai.’</p><p>Feeling like an audience member in his own life (a terribly written drama, with predictable plot twists and unlovable characters—and he usually likes <em>all </em>theater), unable to stop the domino-chain of tragedy, Zuko croaks: “Hello, Father.” He ignores Druk scrambling off the couch to sniff out and gobble every errant yellow pepper, pork cube, and grain of rice. Zuko figures it’d save on clean-up later.</p><p>“Zuko,” Ozai replies. He’s never heard his father bother with greetings; he figured Ozai saw it as a waste of time. And time is money, especially when you’re the head of a multi-million-dollar pharmaceutical company. Once, in high school, Zuko’s fuse ran short when Ozai’s curtness boiled over to physical aggression at his mother and Zuko dared to intervene. He called him unloving, a psychopathic monster. Zuko hadn’t been wrong, though he also learned that some truths should never be said. He wears a reminder of that lesson every day.</p><p>Ozai continues: “I want a report.”</p><p>“Um?” Zuko manages to croak. He knows playing dumb won’t help, but he has zero self-preservation instincts. “On what?”</p><p>An annoyed tongue-click. Never a good sign. “The lordilone. What else could I possibly be referring to? It’s the only reason I’ve allowed you to abandon your family for so long to galivant around in Chicago.”</p><p>Not bothering to point out Uncle’s in Chicago—he’s still family, no matter how Ozai pretends otherwise—and he’s literally moving back to Dallas in September, Zuko focuses on the larger issue: the fact that he’s lost the feeling of his fingers and the coldness threatens to freeze him entirely. “Oh, um, yeah, that.” he manages to squeak out. A deep breath. He feels a teensy bit more courageous. “So, very coincidental you’d call today, because we feel we’ve gained sufficient enough evidence to conclude our trials.”</p><p>“Oh?” Ozai prompts when Zuko doesn’t immediately reply.</p><p>Squashing his eyes shut, Zuko blurts all at once: “It’s a dud drug, Father. It either has negative side effects or doesn’t work at all. We can’t take it to market and it won’t pass regulations.”</p><p>Silence. A silence so long and deep, Zuko begins to wonder if he’s gone deaf. Then, quietly: “You will tell no one this. You will approve the drug immediately and send it to production.”</p><p>Zuko tries to swallow but finds his mouth and throat arid. He’s read lawsuits and lengthy articles about doctors bribed by pharmaceutical companies to falsify clinical trial results. He’s read about doctors forsaking their oaths to help and heal, heard about how licenses are revoked and the doctor forced to live with the shame of their greed for the remainder of their lives. Heard about how the companies get a slap on the wrist and a hefty fine, but allowed to continue business though they’ve ruined lives.</p><p>But Ozai <em>paid </em>for Zuko to go through medical school, surely he wouldn’t want him to risk getting his license revoked? Not when he was going to move to Dallas to begin working in Research and Development? Surely his father would realize that Zuko retaining his dignity—<em>his honor</em>—is of tantamount importance to his continuing schemes? What happened to them raising Phoenix Pharmaceutical to the top of the industry together, as father and son?</p><p><em>Unless he’s decided I’m expendable, </em>Zuko realizes, the frost chilling the blood in his veins suddenly burning-hot, the flows of an erupting volcano.</p><p>“Zuko, it’s your duty to this family that you do this. This is an important product for us; if it’s a commercial success, it could be our making. <em>Your </em>making. You must do your bit,” Ozai presses.</p><p>Arguments cram Zuko’s head, words piling up on his tongue, in his throat, but fear mutes him. He wants to argue it will be disastrous for patients crippled with pain but unable to find relief, it will mean breaking every oath he ever swore, it will mean maybe going to <em>prison. </em>Yet<em>, </em>each point shrivels under the unbearable weight of duty and family. The two pillars of virtue Ozai instilled in him, and though Zuko knows his father isn’t necessarily a good man, he still yearns desperately for his approval.</p><p>He still wishes his father would say he loved him. That, after nearly twenty-eight-years of life, Ozai would finally see something in Zuko worth loving.</p><p>So, he says: “I’ll work on the approval documents and send them to you immediately.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If anyone listens to the Try Pod, you might recognize the Athenaeum stories as Keith's stories from the 2019 Halloween episode! #citeyoursources</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sokka decides to play the game of life on hard mode, Zuko careens towards a morality crisis (not like that's new), and Toph brings falafel.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Updates should be coming every Friday and Sunday night/Monday (depending), so stay tuned folks! Many thanks and a shower of love and gratitude to my beta, @cinnamoncookies</p><p>Edit: I'm so delighted to share that @SocksForYa has let me know about an adorable fanart based off this fic by @acakesdraws over on tumblr. Find it here: https://acakesdraws.tumblr.com/post/626636692810530816/some-cover-art-for-the-podcast-from-this-amazing</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sokka has had his forehead pressed to the table for some time now. It’s impossible to tell how long, though it’s certainly been long enough for the other customers of the Jasmine Dragon to grow bored and go back to their conversations, or Sudoku, or frantic laptop typing. Which, really, Sokka ought to be doing, too.</p><p>But his email inbox had other ideas; its ideas were more aligned with sending his world spinning, his stomach lurching, and his head pounding like a sentient runaway jackhammer. Sokka had, quite unsuspecting and blissful in his naïveté, opened the <em>Cryptid: Decoded</em> email to check fanmail and actually pick some for the ‘Chew and Chat’ segment (actually preplanning for the show: a novel concept), only to be confronted by an email from Yue Taqqiq, co-founder (or co-resurrector?) of <em>Ember. </em></p><p>After a quick Google search confirming Yue Taqqiq actually exists and she’s not actually some elaborate phishing scheme, Sokka’s eyes skitter over the actual email. He reads it again. And again. Yet, after five times, he still can’t believe it: he <em>gets </em>what it’s saying—he knows all these words, it’s written in plain English—but he doesn’t comprehend its meaning. Because <em>Ember.</em>, the fastest-growing platform on the Internet focusing on horror/spooky media and literally resurrected from the ashes of a dumpster-fire video game commentator website (pour one out for <em>EmberIslandPlayers.com), </em>has contacted <em>him. </em>Sokka. A humble podcaster.</p><p>The email reads:</p><p>‘<em>Dear Mr. Imiq,</em></p><p><em>I am thrilled to be writing you on behalf of all of us here at </em>Ember. <em>to firstly express our deep admiration of your work on </em>Cryptid: Decoded. <em>It’s by far one of the best podcasts available today, and we are impressed with your personality that carries the show, your clear technical know-how to edit the episodes to perfection, and the absorbing stories you choose to tell.</em></p><p><em> We are very interested in discussing the possibility of you joining us here, in New York City, at our headquarters as a Content Editor and Producer. We would love to bring your style and personality to a larger audience through your own series supported by our </em>Youtube <em>channel</em>, <em>which currently boasts over 1.15million subscribers. Please respond at your convenience to schedule an opportunity to chat.</em></p><p>
  <em>Sincerely,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yue Taqqiq’</em>
</p><p>Sokka shifts his forehead on the table, forcing his face up despite the crick in his neck to squint at the still-open email.</p><p>It makes no mention of Aang being offered a job, too—though he’d never take it, he gets too much ‘empathetical fulfillment as a therapist’ (his words)—and with living in New York City, they would have to end <em>Cryptid: Decoded. </em>Of course, voice-calls and video-chats are a thing, but it’d significantly lower the quality of the show and Sokka doubts his brain could handle the hours of editing together <em>Ember. </em>content as well as researching, filming, and editing <em>C/D. </em>His literal only job right now is producing the podcast<em>, </em>managing the website, and restocking the merch in the store. He can’t imagine a whole <em>other</em> job, too.</p><p>But what a job: his (and he’s not being hyperbolic here) <em>fever-dream job.</em></p><p><em>Ember. </em>has major influence and credibility; he’d be working with better equipment and resources to produce the type of videos he only <em>daydreamed </em>about as a pimply undergrad, pulling all-nighters at UIC. He’d <em>be </em>something, someone, living it up in New York City and able to share his love of the weird and strange to an even wider audience. He could talk about horror movies and video games. He’d be more than just ghouls and guys in gorilla suits (don’t @ him, but there’s no way ‘Bigfoot’ isn’t just a dollar-bin find from Party City).</p><p>(Actually do @ him, he’ll fight you in a subtweet.)</p><p><em>And Aang and Katara would be totally supportive, </em>Sokka knows, though why does his heart feel heavy at the thought?</p><p>“If the green matcha latte isn’t good, I’d be happy to make another one for you, on the house,” says a wizened voice and Sokka jerks upright, blinking to find Uncle Iroh standing over his little table in the corner of the coffeeshop. Sokka’s not sure whose uncle Iroh is, but the moniker feels suitable.</p><p>“Huh?” Sokka croaks, intelligently.</p><p> Uncle Iroh gestures to the half-full ceramic mug, long since gone tepid beside Sokka’s computer. “You were making a face. If your drink isn’t satisfactory, I can remake it.”</p><p>“Oh, no! No, it’s good, sorry,” Sokka exclaims, swiping up the latte and giving it a slurp to prove the point. “No, sorry. It’s something else. A job offer, actually.”</p><p>Uncle Iroh raises an eyebrow. Sokka decides it looks like someone taped gray, furry caterpillars above his eyes. “A job offer?” Uncle Iroh repeats. “Usually that’s not something to caterwaul about.”</p><p>Sokka doesn’t know what ‘caterwaul’ means, but he gets the basic vibe of it. He replies: “It’s just…conflicting, you know? You know that podcast I run with Aang?” Uncle Iroh nods. The Jasmine Dragon essentially being Sokka’s weekday office has resulted in Uncle Iroh acting as sounding board for many a <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>ideas when Aang and Katara were ‘working’ and ‘making money’ like ‘responsible, normal adults.’ What<em>ever</em>. “Well, I got a job offer that would mean moving to New York City and we couldn’t do the podcast anymore.”</p><p>“Do you think Aang would be hurt if you left?” Uncle Iroh asks, taking the open seat across from Sokka without asking.</p><p>“No, I know he wouldn’t. I mean, I know he likes doing the show, but it’s more of a side-gig for him. He has his therapy practice and his whole ‘helping children working through childhood trauma’ thing. He’d be really supportive of me,” Sokka replies. “Katara would, too.” She’d have to find another roommate, but Sokka suspects she’d be glad to not have to pry his stinky socks out from under the couch with tongs anymore.</p><p>“Then what is the trouble?” Uncle Iroh prompts. Sokka’s suddenly struck with the firm knowledge that Uncle Iroh never thought something was amiss with the latte (the man’s the god of coffee brews, tea steeps, and drink blends; no latte he touches is anything less than Excellent), but rather used it as an excuse to fulfill his compulsive need to dispense advice.</p><p><em>What is the trouble? </em>Sokka turns over internally. Why does his head spin with finger-tingling, toe-curling dreams even as his heart ties an anchor to itself and jumps into the ocean? <em>What is the trouble?</em></p><p>Before he can take a wild stab at an answer, the Jasmine Dragon’s door swings in and makes the bell above the door jangle madly. A blur of beanie and a great white dog, and Aang and Appa enter in a flurry of energy and greetings to the surly barista Jet behind the counter. Sokka glances at his computer’s clock; <em>huh, </em>he thinks, <em>I must have been sulking for a while. </em>It’s 4:45pm already. Guilty, Sokka closes his laptop.</p><p>Giving him a kindly smile and pat on the knuckles, Uncle Iroh suggests: “Why don’t you talk with your friend about it? You don’t need an old man to tell you what to do.”</p><p>Aang’s bounding over. “Hey Sokka, hey Uncle Iroh! What’s going on?”</p><p>“Hello, my young friend, what’s got you in such a good mood?” Uncle Iroh replies, laughingly allowing Aang to give him a flying hug.</p><p>Aang detaches himself to do the same to Sokka, Appa yipping and prancing at his human’s excitement. “I just got a phone call with the Graceland people,” he says, equally to Uncle Iroh and Sokka’s shoulder. Reeling himself back, he explains, “It’s that huge cemetery in Bueno Park! It’s supposedly hecka haunted and also where all of Chicago’s celebrities are buried.”</p><p><em>And also where I wanted to take Dr. McDreamy on a not-date, </em>Sokka’s brain conjures because it hates him and likes to send him into near-convulsions from past embarrassment. <em>Because of course Zuko Sozin, M.D. is way out of my league. But what if a cemetery outing could be my in—? What if he ignored I’m a lowly podcaster and he’s a doctor—?</em></p><p>Unaware of Sokka’s internal longing, Uncle Iroh jokes: “I should look into a plot there, then.” It’s an old guy’s prerogative to crack joke about mortality.</p><p>Composing himself, Sokka manages to enthuse: “Oh, that’s awesome! How did you convince them? When I called, they told me to go fuck myself.” It’s kind of a trend when Sokka calls location management to ask about filming.</p><p>“I guess they looked up the podcast since you called. They told me they’d love the publicity,” Aang explains, “I guess we have to plug a visit or donation or something.”</p><p>“Eh, no problem,” Sokka says. “Remember how many times the Alamo required us to say <em>‘Remember the Alamo...is a great family vacation destination!’ </em>? That was murder.”</p><p>Aang nods. “My thoughts, too.” At some point during the conversation, Uncle Iroh excuses himself to let them talk, and Aang plops into the vacated seat. He’s grinning so wide, an excited light shining in his gray eyes, and the brightness reminds Sokka of a blue UV light, killing all germs and thoughts of <em>Ember. </em>interviews.</p><p><em>I’ll tell him later, </em>Sokka assures himself, knowing full well it’s a weak evasion tactic.</p><p>“So, we’re scheduled for this coming Saturday night,” Aang prattles on. “They want us to air it immediately, like Monday, so we’ll have to push back the H.H. Holmes episode.”</p><p>“So soon?” Sokka definitely does <em>not </em>squeak. Because it’s not like he wanted to wait until he casually bumped into Zuko Sozin, M.D. at his next appointment. Though, objectively, showing up at his office for a check-up isn’t exactly ‘bumping into him.’ But, you get the point. Sokka could mention going to Graceland, dangling the carrot and enticing Zuko to go on a not-date where they could talk about Mothman and spirits.</p><p>Aang’s talking: “Yeah, I guess they’re really hurting for money, so they want the donations as soon as possible. Also, the weather says it should be a little warmer on Saturday, so at least we won’t get hypothermia trying to record out there.”</p><p>“Uh, um,” Sokka scrambles for an excuse about why they can’t record three days from now. <em>Anything </em>will do<em>. </em>He lands on: “What about your party? Won’t you be tired from the night before?”</p><p>A shrug. “Eh, I won’t be drinking, so it’s more up to you and how drunk you want to get. I don’t think the cemetery people would like it if you vommed on a headstone,” Aang replies with a cheeky grin. Sokka hurled <em>one time </em>on Aang. <em>Once.</em></p><p>“Har-har,” Sokka intones before falling silent, frowning down at his laptop. It’s a relic of his college days, littered with <em>Parks &amp; Rec </em>quote-stickers, UIC logos, and even a badge for a long-closed hookah shop. Katara dragged him there for a poetry night, and Sokka may or may not have performed a full rendition of the <em>PokéRap.</em></p><p>“Wait, why aren’t you psyched?” Aang’s smile slides into a frown. He looks like a kicked puppy, and Appa must sense his kindred spirit. He rests his mammoth head in Aang’s lap. “I thought Graceland was the one episode you for-sure wanted for <em>Weird Chicago.”</em></p><p>“Oh, yeah, yeah I do. Sorry, Aang. It’s not like I don’t really appreciate it. It’s just that…” <em>Just that I want to take my doctor-crush there and woo him with the macabre. It’s just that I got an interview for my dream job but I don’t want to go for it and I don’t know why? </em>Settling on the lesser of two insurmountable truths, Sokka admits: “It’s just this stupid thing I have in my head. I kind of mentioned going to Graceland with Dr. Sozin as a, you know, not-date, since I’m his patient and he could get in trouble if we went somewhere together. But it wouldn’t be <em>together</em>-together, just a hang-out. Just chilling. Looking at spooky shit. But, I kinda wanted to, uh, have him there when we went.”</p><p>“Oh. Ooooooooh,” Aang says, his expression lighting and a sly smile pulling on in its place. “Wow.”</p><p>Sokka narrows his eyes. “‘Wow’ what?”</p><p>Aang shrug aims for innocuous. It misses. Spectacularly. “Just ‘wow’ as in ‘wow I didn’t know your crush was <em>that</em> bad.’”</p><p>Glaring makes Sokka feel a modicum better. “I do <em>not </em>have a crush on him.” Aang arches a brow, his smile widening, and Sokka concedes: “Okay, not a <em>bad </em>crush on him.” He’d already admitted to their fifteen-thousand listeners he has a crush, there’s no point in denying that, but Sokka would like to retain <em>some </em>of his dignity.</p><p>“Uh-huh,” Aang replies, clearly unconvinced. “Well, what are you going to do about it? You could always—wait a second!” Aang practically catapults himself from his chair, jolting Appa and startling all the other coffee-shoppers in a ten-foot vicinity. With his classic lack of self-awareness, Aang blurts: “I totally forgot! I invited Zuko to my party on Friday!”</p><p>“You did <em>what?” </em>demands Sokka, nearly dumping the entire table onto the floor. Hurriedly steadying it, Sokka repeats: “You did what? How are you <em>just now</em> telling me? When did this happen?”</p><p>Aang, at least, has the good sense to look sheepish. Rubbing the back of his head and chuckling awkwardly, he admits, “Yeah, I know, sorry. That was a party foul—get it, because I invited him—?" At Sokka’s glare, Aang cuts himself off: “Right, sorry. I saw my friend, Toph, at the dog-park on Saturday and he was there with her. I guess they’re friends, but I kind of recognized his name and he matched the descriptions you gave. You know, where you were all ‘<em>sigh </em>his eyes are so perfect and golden and his cheekbones could cut me and I’d thank him <em>sigh</em>’ –”</p><p>“I do <em>not </em>sound like that!” Sokka interjects.</p><p>Ignoring him, Aang continues: “And I kind of invited him. Toph helped convince him, so you can blame her, too, when you meet her Friday. But this is perfect, right?”</p><p>“<em>How” </em>Sokka grounds out, taking deep breaths and internally chanting that Aang’s his <em>best friend </em>and he can’t murder his best friend, “Is this perfect?”</p><p>“Well, you’ll see him then and it’s totally by chance so patient-doctor relationship issues won’t be a problem. You can ask him to ‘hang-out’ in the cemetery then!” Aang explains, quite unaware Sokka is willing himself to just disappear. <em>Please</em>. <em>Just let me cease to exist.</em> <em>Any second now</em>. “He’d probably be kind of into us being really famous podcasters. You could mention it and impress him.”</p><p>Aang wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. It should be made illegal in all fifty states.</p><p>And the sudden realization makes Sokka feel ill, adding to an increasingly long list of problems: “Aang, he can absolutely <em>never </em>find out about the podcast. There is <em>way too much </em>of me pining over him. I would literally implode if he found out.”</p><p>Aang howls with laughter, but Sokka really cannot see what’s so funny.</p><hr/><p>Quite unbeknownst to either Sokka or Zuko, the latter is sitting fifteen feet over the former’s head, feet tucked under him and Druk curled up at his side. Zuko watches his Uncle busy himself in the little kitchen, his apartment (again, a too-cool apartment for a sixty-year-old) a studio apartment and granting Zuko the perfect view to watch Uncle whip up a pan of Sichuan chicken. You know, <em>casually, </em>at 5 pm in the afternoon.</p><p>Zuko had slogged through Tuesday, but today, the morning hours dragged, his office’s wall seemed to be marching steadily closer, and the thought of spending his afternoon in Dr. Jee’s lab was unbearable. So, he faked a cough he knew neither Mai nor Dr. Huo believed, asked Ty Lee to send only urgent calls to his pager, and set off at a brisk clip.</p><p>And, if Ty Lee’s teasingly calling him ‘Old Man Zuko’ for his pager or if Druk’s greeting as he shuffled in made him want to cry (<em>because how can anyone think I’m worthy of a friendly joke, or a happy greeting, or kindness at all, </em>Zuko wonders<em>) </em>then that’s his business.</p><p>Zuko stuffed leftover steak salad (Tuesday’s dinner) into his mouth in a quick excuse for lunch before clipping Druk’s leash on and walking. And walking. And walking some more. He walked the five miles to the Jasmine Dragon and shuffled into his Uncle’s apartment without so much as a text ahead or a cursory knock. He just flopped into his armchair—the one Iroh still calls ‘Zuko’s chair’ even though he hasn’t lived here permanently for nine years—and simply waited for Iroh to creep up the stairs from the coffee shop below.</p><p>When Iroh saw him, he simply said: “I’ll make your favorite.”</p><p><em>Funny how he thinks that the Sichuan chicken is still my favorite after all these years, </em>Zuko thought wryly, another thought quickly following on its heels: <em>Funny how he’s the only one to know all my favorites.</em></p><p>Before his senior year of high school, Zuko could count on one hand the number of times he’d met Uncle Iroh. The estrangement, according to family lore warped by Ozai’s retelling, came when Iroh renounced his place on the Phoenix Pharma Board of Directors. He’d gone on a ‘year of finding himself’ while serving in Tibet in the Peace Corps. Ozai always retold that bit with a derisive snort. Zuko was never sure if it was more a comment on Iroh’s newfound spirituality or the abstract concept of ‘peace.’</p><p>Knowing Ozai, it could be either.</p><p>Yet, when Grandfather died quite suddenly, it recalled all members of the Sozins from the four corners of the world: Ursa from her California rehab center, Azula from her Connecticut boarding school, Cousin Lu Ten from Hong Kong, and Uncle Iroh from Chicago. At the funeral, Iroh had been the only one to ask Zuko if he was okay. He, not Ozai, comforted Zuko as he coped with death for the first time in his young life.</p><p>When the Disagreement™ happened—the one where Ozai held Zuko’s face into the Aspen chalet’s fireplace, fire raging inside, while on skiing weekend, <em>and who’s ever heard of being burned while skiing?—</em>Iroh had been the only one to visit Zuko’s hospital bed. The decision to finish his senior spring semester at a Chicago school and then continue living above the Jasmine Dragon for the first few years of undergrad at UChicago had been made when Zuko was stuck with more needles than a porcupine. His reasoning was based on very heavy painkillers, but now—nine years wiser than the desperate eighteen-year-old he had been—he still recognizes it as the most rational decision he’s ever made.</p><p>Uncle Iroh gives the pork a good shake in the pan, the meat fat hissing.</p><p>“You do not look well, nephew,” Uncle begins in his usual gentle way. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”</p><p>“Are you trying to diagnose a doctor?” Zuko asks, trying for a rueful grin, a teasing tone, but it just comes out tired.</p><p>Uncle Iroh glances over his shoulder. “How about some calming tea?” A question answered with a question: a classic evasion tactic.</p><p>Sighing, Zuko admits, “That’d be nice.” Now, Uncle gives him a searching look and Zuko schools his expression from cringing. It’s out-of-character for him to accept tea without any wheedling and cajoling; he’d shown his hand and the severity of his predicament. Uncle might not know <em>what </em>it is, but he suspects the intensity of shit Zuko’s buried himself in. Still, Zuko tries to play it off: “Just to have something warm to hold. It’s still so cold outside.”</p><p>It’s not exactly a lie: winter still has its icy fingers dug into the city.</p><p>Uncle Iroh hums an unconvinced hum. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’d been talking with your father.”</p><p>Zuko chokes on air. Druk perks his head up, staring concernedly at his human. His wagging tail batters Zuko’s ribcage. “What—” he manages to splutter, “What—how—why do you say that? Have <em>you </em>talked to him?” It’s about as common as a solar eclipse, Ozai and Iroh talking: not entirely unheard of, but only happening once a year (if that).</p><p>And from Uncle Iroh’s little frown, the slight narrowing of his eyes, Zuko knows he inadvertently confirmed his suspicions. But Iroh doesn’t comment immediately, instead busying himself with pouring the Shaoxing wine over the chicken, the hot pan hissing violently. He puts the squat frog-shaped kettle on. “No, I have not. It seems my brother can’t stand the sound of my voice, but you, nephew, you always carry stress and sadness on your shoulders after you talk to him. I worry you’re dangerously close to falling back into the angry young man I picked up from O’Hare all those years ago.”</p><p>Zuko winces at the memory; at how he yelled at Uncle during the long drive from the airport to the Jasmine Dragon in the old Mercury Sable. Traffic had been brutal, the highways and interstates slowed to a standstill. There had been two and a half hours of deathly silence after Zuko’s short fuse ignited. Zuko swore he’d never yell at Uncle like that again—yell at him the way he wanted to yell at Father—and for the most part he kept that promise.</p><p>Now, though, Zuko can’t quite meet Uncle’s eyes as he tells the lie: “Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as that. At least I’m not a hormonal teenager anymore. No, he just called on Monday to…to see how I was doing. Wanted to make sure I’m on track to move back home.” Queasiness rises in his stomach at calling Dallas ‘home.’ It’s an unpalpable lie: calling the Sozin family compound in Texas ‘home’ while sitting in Uncle’s apartment, the first true home he ever knew.</p><p>Uncle senses Zuko’s discomfort even though his back is turned as he tends the chicken. “I do not mind if you don’t want to tell me the truth, but don’t lie to me. It’s insulting to both me and you.” He turns from the stove, carrying the piping kettle and pouring steaming water into a teapot to steep. “I know you too well, nephew. I can tell when you’re lying.”</p><p>Pinned under Uncle’s probing stare, Zuko can do nothing but tell the truth. It spills out in a breath: “Father wants me to falsify the lordilone results. He wants to take it to market immediately, but it’s a dud, Uncle. At best, it does nothing, and at worse, it exacerbates a patient’s symptoms.”</p><p>Uncle seems entirely unsurprised by Ozai’s audacity. “And he wants <em>you </em>to do it for him?”</p><p>“Yes, he wants me to approve it and send it to production. I guess…if it sells well enough and for a lot less than competitors, Father thinks people will fork over lots of money for it.” Swallowing past the sudden tightening of his throat, Zuko adds: “I don’t know what to do.”</p><p>“You must follow what your heart tells you is right.” Iroh’s voice hardens, a fierceness squaring his jaw. Though Iroh has firm control over his emotions, Zuko can tell he’s furious. <em>At me, for even considering it? </em>Zuko wonders, heart plunging to his toes, <em>Or at Father? </em></p><p>He can’t tell.</p><p>“But Uncle…what if I know what is right for the family is different from knowing what is right, um, <em>generally? </em>Father…he said he’s counting on me,” Zuko tries, only half-believing his own justification. The other half at him rages and screams, as if he might rip himself in two. “What if I can finally prove myself to him? He’d realize he’s been wrong after all these years.”</p><p>Iroh doesn’t reply for a long moment, dishing out two steaming servings of chicken before pouring the tea. He makes Zuko’s cup just as he likes it: lots of milk, lots of sugar. Only after Iroh hands Zuko his plate and tea, only after Iroh settles in his chair, does he say: “What I think is more important is proving your own worth to yourself.”</p><hr/><p>Zuko’s miserable the rest of the week.</p><p>He knows it’s partially his own fault, waffling around on what to do about his Father, and dodging calls and emails labeled ‘Phoenix Pharma’ or ‘Dr. Jee.’ He even fired off an email to <em>C/D </em>under the pseudonym 'Blue Spirit' again, vaguely referring to his situation in a desperate attempt for (more) advice. He blames this decision on hour seven of binging old episodes of <em>Grey’s Anatomy. </em>It's all an attempt to trick his mind into slowing down, to maybe going blank. Just for a little while.</p><p>He realizes he does maybe <em>too</em> good of a job at evading reality when a knock comes at his door on Friday night. He opens it, but doesn’t find his usual GrubHub delivery-girl. “Uh, Toph? Badger?” Zuko begins, his brain finally catching up after a solid minute of staring. “What are you guys doing here? How’d you get my address?”</p><p>“Your uncle’s a nark, dude, sorry ‘bout it,” Toph replies, pushing her way past Zuko and into his living room. Behind her, Meredith Grey’s paused face looks just as surprised as Zuko’s. “I would say ‘nice place,’ but I can’t really tell.” She makes a show of sniffing. “<em>Smells </em>good though. All doctor-y.”</p><p>“So, properly sterilized?” Zuko asks, though it’s not really the question he wants to ask.</p><p>“Yeah, sure.” Toph shrugs. “Are you ready to go? My driver’s waiting downstairs, and we got to pick up falafel on our way.”</p><p>Feeling lost (and he’s in his own apartment), Zuko squawks, “Wait, what? Ready to go <em>where</em>?”</p><p>Toph fixes a scowl in his general direction. “To Aang’s party, what do mean ‘go where?’ Did you forget?”</p><p>“Erk,” is Zuko’s eloquent reply.</p><p>Toph rolls her eyes. “Dude, I texted you about it literally two days ago.”</p><p>Glad Toph can’t see his blush, Zuko mutters, “I’ve been busy.” It’s not a lie, at least. “But, I don’t think I’m going to go. Sorry, I just—”</p><p>“Nope, nuh-uh, no, stop,” Toph steamrolls through and, with shocking precision, literally cuts Zuko off by pressing her finger to his mouth. “I don’t want to hear any stupid excuses or apologizes, because you <em>are </em>coming.”</p><p>Around Toph’s finger, crushing into his mouth and bruising his teeth (as a doctor, Zuko <em>knows </em>its physically impossible to bruise teeth, but tell that to Toph), he protests: “What about Druk? I don’t want to leave him.”</p><p>"Druk can come, my driver will look after him.” Toph says this like it’s obvious. <em>Oh yes, so obvious because clearly everyone else has crazy rich parents like the Beifongs, who pay for an actual hired driver who doubles as a dog-watcher, </em>Zuko thinks.</p><p>And it may be that Zuko’s teetering on the edge of a moral crisis, or it may be he’s tired of being alone with his thoughts, or it may be the sadistic part of him that <em>knows</em> Sokka will be at the party and wants to see what new depths of embarrassment he can plunge to. Or, it may be a combination of all three. He finds himself saying: “Yeah, okay, fine. I’ll go change, but you owe me.”</p><p>Toph snorts. “I owe you because I’m making sure you actually have a life? Yeah, <em>okay, </em>Sparky. Whatever you say.”</p><hr/><p>Sokka spends the entirety of Friday hobbling around on his crutches, decorating Aang’s apartment. Appa’s his only company until Katara arrives in the afternoon, her bag stuffed with midterm grading for the weekend, and Aang returns with Gyatso from the suburbs. While Sokka’s never been known for his decorative eye, it seems like the sort of thing a best friend volunteers to do for his best friend’s de-facto-birthday party. Aang’s palpable relief when Sokka offered quelled the overpowering sense of doom sinking in Sokka’s stomach at the thought of streamers, and spiked punch bowls, and vegetarian canapes.</p><p>And, really, with how many bodies are currently squashed into Aang’s tiny apartment, maybe Sokka’s stress over his decorations had been unwarranted. From his place at one end of the ping-pong table (a relic of Aang’s undergrad days at University of Illinois), Sokka can barely see the orange and yellow streamers, or the ‘Happy Adoption Day!’ banner, or even the television. But, that’s more because it’s become the epicenter of the Mario Kart tournament.</p><p>Most twenty-five-year-olds would be self-conscious about having Mario Kart and cookie cake at their party alongside vodka and whiskey sours, but then Aang isn’t like most twenty-five-year-olds. Besides not drinking, Aang’s birthday—well, technically ‘Gotcha! Day’ is more appropriate—has always been a celebration of Aang’s <em>Aangness: </em>how he can go from discussing the minutiae of <em>Luigi’s Mansion </em>to his opinions about presidential candidates’ education reform platforms in mere seconds. A happy blend of childlike delight and mediated adult maturity. Sokka’s always admired Aang’s ability to be completely, unabashedly himself.</p><p>Currently, Aang’s posted by the door of his apartment, greeting people with hugs and grins, when he catches Sokka’s eye and sends him a grin and a thumbs-up. Aang mouths: ‘Zuko just got here!’</p><p>Sokka feels like the floor just opened underneath him. He stares at Aang’s toothy smile, eyes darting past him as if expecting Zuko to shoulder through the crowd at any second, and Sokka would’ve gone on staring if a ping-pong ball didn’t ricochet off his forehead.</p><p>“My apologies, Sock!” Aang’s dad, Gyatso, says, grinning because he damn-well knows Sokka hates being called ‘Sock,’ which encourages him all the more. To be fair, when Gyatso and Aang moved two doors down from the Imiq family home, Sokka had been an actual public menace and definitely deserved to be called ‘Sock.’ Of course, Sokka <em>had </em>been fifteen at the time; he was menace to himself, not just his neighbors.</p><p>Now, across the ping-pong table, Gyatso casually twirls a paddle between his fingers. “Might I challenge you to a game?”</p><p>Casting one more look at the door, Sokka distractedly grabs up a paddle. “Uh, yeah, okay. You’re so on, old man.”</p><p>And it’s definitely the worst game of ping-pong he’s ever played, but how can he focus when his every nerve is on fire with the knowledge that <em>Zuko is here!?</em></p><hr/><p>Zuko’s trying to calculate how fast he’ll have to run to evade Toph’s grasp and this situation entirely; how to hand the take-out falafel back to her without piquing her suspicion; wondering if he can parkour-jump down the stairwell of Aang’s building and not break his legs on the five-story drop. Yet, no matter how his mind screams survival methods, his feet simply will not move. He’s transfixed by the banner, visible through the crowded doorway to Aang’s apartment.</p><p>“Is it Aang’s birthday?” Zuko asks, shuffling forward with Toph in the <em>literal </em>reception line waiting to talk to Aang at the door. They have to be breaking at least fifty fire codes, with the amount of people currently crammed into the apartment.</p><p>“Well, he doesn’t know when his real birthday is, but yeah, pretty much,” Toph returns. “He was left as a baby, so they just celebrate his adoption day as his birthday.”</p><p>“Really, he was adopted?” Zuko thinks back to the fan-boards he’s trawled, reading the theories most <em>C/D </em>listeners dismissed as lubricious about Aang being adopted. <em>Guess they were right, </em>Zuko thinks.</p><p>“Yeah, but he can’t remember being an orphan, or whatever. Old Man Gyatso—his dad—made sure he was really well-adjusted, I guess.”</p><p>“Is that why he’s a therapist for children?” Zuko asks, forgetting he’s not supposed to know Aang’s occupation; Zuko, the doctor and not the super-fan, doesn’t know anything about him.</p><p>Toph doesn’t call him out on it, instead shrugging. “I don’t know; I’m not his freaking biographer.” She tugs at his arm as Badger leads her forward, finally reaching the front the line. “Come on, Sparky, our turn.”</p><p>Before Zuko can protest, can slip out of her (iron-tight) grip, Aang’s swinging toward them. An even wider smile blooms across his face. “Zuko! Toph! Badger! You guys came!” Zuko finds himself being tugged into a hug. “I’m so happy to see you! This is awesome.”</p><p>“Alright, Twinkletoes, calm down,” Toph teases, pushing Aang off after a few seconds of hugging. “Let a person breathe a little.”</p><p>Aang laughs, a short, warm burst that feels like a summer breeze. “Ah, come on, Toph. You can’t be mean to me on my Gotcha Day; it’s against the rules.”</p><p>She shrugs, as if to say ‘I do what I want.’</p><p>Zuko, fingers knotting together in front of him, blurts: “Sorry about not bringing anything, Aang. I didn’t realize this was a birthday party—err, Gotcha Day party?”</p><p>Gray eyes wide, Aang looks genuinely confused. It reminds Zuko of Druk. “Why would you bring me anything? I mean, I appreciate the thought and all, but I didn’t really mention it was my Gotcha Day party because I didn’t want you to feel pressured <em>to bring</em> anything. Your presence is a present.” He wiggles his fingers to underscore the cheesy joke and Zuko grins despite the redness he can <em>feel </em>emphasizing his scar.</p><p>“<em>Lame</em>,” Toph draws out, saving Zuko from trying to concoct a non-halting reply. “What’s a party if you don’t try to milk everyone for gifts and money?”</p><p>“Toph, just so you know, I’m rolling my eyes at you,” Aang narrates for her as he does indeed roll his eyes. Turning to Zuko, he adds, pointing to the falafel order: “Also, you <em>did </em>bring me something.” </p><p>“Oh, well, Toph actually got it,” Zuko splutters.</p><p>“Carrying it is just as important. Would you mind putting it on the food table? It’s over by the ping-pong table,” Aang asks.</p><p> Zuko’s too busy craning around to spot the ping-pong table to notice the conspiratorial gleam in Aang’s eye. He’s too distracted staring at the two men (one with a pony-tail and chiseled jawline Zuko would recognize <em>anywhere)</em> playing ping-pong to notice how Toph offers Aang a knuckle-bump. For one solid second—a second Zuko spends mentally screaming at himself because <em>I knew Sokka would be here, I don’t get to act all surprised and embarrassed by something I </em>wanted <em>to happen—</em>Zuko stares.</p><p>He stares, feeling like he’s suddenly on one end of an empty room while Sokka Imiq stands at the other, ping-pong paddle in hand.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The rise of the great cereal debate, and other dumb conversations. Aang receives the best-ever Gotcha Day gift in the form of getting to see his best friend absolutely mortify himself.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As ever, thanks oodles of noodles to my dear beta and friend, @cinnamoncookies, for her discerning eye. Also, I would like to take this moment to confess that, yes, some of this is a call-out post at myself and my former Reylo-trash ways. It's character growth when you can laugh at yourself, right?</p>
<p>Hope you enjoy :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This could be worse.</p>
<p>Zuko’s not sure how—ask him later, when he can think in longer than three-word sentences—but it definitely could be worse: he’s successfully navigated the sea of humanity flooding Aang’s apartment, wedged the falafel in next to a heaping bowl of tzatziki, and has performed a shuffle-scoot-thing over to the ping-pong table. He’s even said hello to Sokka and, if he’s quite honest, he’d been unsure whether he was even physically capable of doing that.</p>
<p>But, he realizes too late, giving an awkward wave and “Uh, um, hi Sokka!” was the easier part: now, Sokka’s fixing the full mega-beam of his smile on Zuko. Now, Sokka’s blue eyes stay glued on him, as if he’s the most interesting human alive (and not the most hideously scarred). Now, Sokka’s talking in his totally not tinny-podcasty voice (it’s all warm and buttery, like popcorn made on the stove) and Zuko totally misses what he said. His brain feels like a radio (<em>or a spirit box) </em>flipping through channels, only catching up snatches of songs or speech from different stations. He couldn’t catch the entirety of what Sokka said through the haze of static.</p>
<p>His nerves howl at him to <em>abort mission! Social interaction already a failure! Return to home to hide in shame for the rest of the weekend!, </em>but his traitorous mouth croaks out: “Huh?”</p>
<p>Sokka graciously repeats himself. “I said: ‘you clean up good, doc.”</p>
<p>Blinking, Zuko glances down at his black-on-black clothes. As a grown man, aged twenty-eight and with medical degrees (plural!), he still reverts to his emo boy fashion when he’s outside of work. “Um.” Zuko raises an eyebrow at Sokka. He can’t help pointing out: “Well, I’m actually dressed worse than when you saw me last, but thanks…?” It’s a little wryer than he’d intended, all croaky and sarcastic, and Zuko wishes he could grab the words out of the air and stuff them back into his mouth.</p>
<p>Yet, Sokka laughs. It’s a bright sound, kind of like Druk’s happy bark, as if Sokka’s always pleasantly surprised by a joke; as if he’s stumbled across something wondrously delightful. Zuko’s heard the laugh thousands of times, daydreaming for hours about it responding to something <em>he </em>said, and he now flushes. Sokka admits, “You got me, but also I think there’s different levels of ‘cleaning up’, you know?”</p>
<p>“What, like cleaning up for work is amateur mode?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, and parties is expert mode, because, like, there’s the whole question of the vibe of the party, what other people will wear, what other people will even be there. It’s a delicate balance,” Sokka chatters, Zuko watching as he angles himself forward as if to launch himself into the conversation. He waves his hands, conducting and orchestrating his thoughts. “And I feel like each thing to consider contributes to the overall score of ‘cleaning up.’”</p>
<p>“Twenty points for getting the party vibe right but then negative seven for going e-boy aesthetic to a Halloween party?” Zuko offers.</p>
<p>Sokka jabs a finger in his direction. “Exactly! And also, is it weird that I’m proud of you for knowing what an e-boy is?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m kind of proud of me too,” Zuko replies, knowing a dopey smile hangs on his face. He doesn’t quite care. “Wait, I thought of something: what if you’re going as an e-boy <em>to </em>a Halloween party.”</p>
<p>“Oh, plot twist,” Sokka returns, mouth hinging to add only for a ping-pong to nail him right between the eyes. He makes a sort of “<em>arckh!”</em> sound.</p>
<p>“Sokka!” Zuko shouts, diving around the ping-pong table to steady him at the shoulders. “Are you okay?” he asks, gently prying away Sokka’s hand where he clutches at his face. The already-forming lump underneath is angry and red. Zuko sucks in a sharp breath in sympathy. “Ouch, does it hurt?”</p>
<p>Sokka groans.</p>
<p>“I am so sorry, Sokka!” the old man at the other end of the table exclaims. “I was just doing it as a joke; I didn’t mean to, uh…”</p>
<p>“<em>Beam me in the face?” </em>Sokka finishes. He tries to glare at the chagrined old man—a man who, Zuko notices, looks nothing like Aang but exudes his same Aang-ness—but soon gives up, grumbling in pain.</p>
<p>“We should get some ice on this,” Zuko says, compartmentalizing a growing knot of panic in his chest (<em>he’s </em>touching <em>Sokka! They are touching! This is not a drill!) </em>with the more pressing need of offering medical aid.</p>
<p>“Kitchen,” Sokka grunts, pointing to a narrow archway next to the television currently playing a Mario Kart tournament.</p>
<p>“Is there anything I can do to help?” the old man asks, rounding the ping-pong table to gently cradle Sokka’s elbow. At this closer proximity, his eyes are heavy with worry and his voice wobbles with regret. “I feel awful for hurting you, Sock.”</p>
<p>Sokka musters a genuine smile and grips the man’s shoulder. Giving it a squeeze, he assures, “Seriously, don’t worry about it, Gyatso. Just buy me mochi ice cream when we’re at Mariano’s next time, okay?”</p>
<p>Though the worry doesn’t dissipate from Gyatso’s expression, he does withdraw his hand and allow Zuko to guide Sokka away, toward the kitchen. It takes a chorus of ‘excuse me—sorry—coming through—sorry’ to worm their way through the crowd, spilling into the relatively deserted kitchen, and reach the freezer. Sokka instructs Zuko on what packages of frozen quinoa burgers to shuffle aside to find the ice packs. Once Sokka has his head tilted back, ice pressed firmly between his eyes, does Zuko withdraw his hands.</p>
<p>He instantly feels colder, like he’s been chucked into a snow drift in the dead of winter.</p>
<p>“How do you feel?” Zuko asks, probably for the fourth time in a minute (but who’s counting?)* while his fingers worry at the hem of his black tee-shirt. Later, as he’s staring up at the darkened bedroom ceiling, Zuko will wonder what Sokka thought was so ‘cleaned up’ about a GAP tee-shirt. The only solutions his overactive imagination comes up with will make him lose hours of sleep.</p>
<p>“Honestly, I’ve been better,” Sokka answers, eyes closed as if to concentrate on balancing the ice pack like a seal with a ball on its nose. He’s actually pretty good at it.</p>
<p>Zuko nods, Silence. His eyes scour around their immediate vicinity for something, <em>anything, </em>to comment on and—his eyes latch. “Oh, you like <em>Star Wars? </em>Me too.”</p>
<p>Sokka’s creaks an eyelid open, squinting at Zuko before following his pointed finger to a poster hanging above the sink. The framed picture features a Galactic Stormtrooper tossing pizza dough, with ‘Mamma Mia!’ printed above. Though Zuko can’t imagine it’s practical for pizza-making or space-fighitng, a French chef’s hat perches atop the trooper’s helmet. “Oh,” Sokka says. “Well, that’s Aang’s poster since we’re in Aang’s apartment.”</p>
<p>Zuko slams his eyes shut, as if not seeing will stem the rising swell of embarrassment. No such luck: he can feel his every patch of skin turning fiery red. “Uh, right, um, yeah, that was stupid, just ignore I said—”</p>
<p>"But, I do like <em>Star Wars,” </em>Sokka interrupts, mercifully. Zuko dares to crack open an eye, a heady mixture of both alarmed and relieved to see the (fond?) smile Sokka fixes on him. “I mean, in terms of movies Jim Henson has helped with, <em>Labyrinth </em>is far superior, but <em>Star Wars </em>is fine, too.”</p>
<p>Thrown by the ludicrousness of the comment, Zuko temporarily forgets he’s supposed to be sticking his head in the freezer or jumping out of window to escape this situation. “Wait, wait: that’s a lot to unpack. First of all, why does your mind go to Jim Henson and not George Lucas?”</p>
<p>“Because, Jim Henson was a storytelling genius and the Muppets are the most pivotal pieces of media to come out of the late 20<sup>th</sup> Century. Also, without him, we wouldn’t have Yoda, who’s arguably the backbone of the <em>Star Wars </em>franchise,” Sokka replies, mouth curling wide. His smile threatens to splinter his face.</p>
<p>“You just made a lot of bold claims.”</p>
<p>Sokka shrugs elaborately. “I’m a bold person.”</p>
<p>“Can’t argue with that.”</p>
<p>“What were your other things to unpack?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know; I mean, you made more claims that need even more unpacking from the original unpacking.” Zuko thinks for a moment. “Okay, are you seriously telling me David Bowie in super tight riding pants is superior to Luke finding out Darth Vader is his father? Like, that’s the twistiest plot twist ever.” Zuko doesn’t add: ‘<em>And I used to be jealous of Luke for having a well-adjusted father compared to mine.’ </em>Because this is a light conversation with a Hot Boy, and doesn’t need his daddy issues dumped on.</p>
<p>“Yeah, sure, but also how can you look at me in the eyes and tell me Bowie didn’t give us a cinematic gift with those pants?”</p>
<p>“Alright, I see your point. They were…some good pants.” Zuko had seen gifs from <em>Labyrinth </em>on Tumblr before he finally got around to watching it, aged fourteen and barely post-gay panic. He’d made sure he had the house to himself for that particular weekend. Zuko blushes at the memory.</p>
<p>Either unaware or kindly ignoring Zuko’s steadily pinking face, Sokka inclines his head. “Thank you. Oh, have you been to Galaxy’s Edge yet?”</p>
<p>“Galaxy’s Edge? The new <em>Star Wars </em>land in Disney?” Zuko clarifies.</p>
<p>“Yeah! Aang and I got to go for the hottest of seconds this past year. We didn’t have time to really experience it, and I want to go again,” Sokka explains.</p>
<p>What Zuko doesn’t say: ‘<em>I know, you and Aang did a pit-stop in Disney World on your road-trip to go Swamp Cabbage Man hunting** in the Everglades.’ </em>What Zuko does say: “Oh, no, I’ve never been to Disney.”</p>
<p>“Are you <em>serious? </em>Not World or Land?” Sokka gasps, as if Zuko confessed to a weekend hobby of kicking puppies or sticking chewed gum under benches on public transport. “Never ever in your life?”</p>
<p>“No, I obviously had no childhood,” Zuko jokes, though it’s depressingly how much it <em>isn’t </em>a joke.</p>
<p>“I’ll say. I can’t believe it! You’ve never-ever been! We’ll have to go; I’ll drag you on all the mountain-rides in Magic Kingdom. Splash, Space, Big Thunder.” Sokka ticks off the rides on his fingers. “We can skip Animal Kingdom if we really have to, because seriously blue-people <em>Avatar</em>? <em>Why</em>? And don’t let people tell you the rides are cool or whatever, making a park based on <em>that </em>franchise like it’s still relevant was a major mistake. And anyway, we’re going to spend all of our time in Galaxy’s Edge, obviously.”</p>
<p>“Obviously,” Zuko plays along, “But would we ride rides or get photo ops or eat food?”</p>
<p>“All the above! I could skip Crybaby Ren’s photo op, but we would <em>have </em>to track down Rey. I’m a total simp for her,” Sokka rattles on before suddenly growing very still. Slowly, he lowers the ice pack and looks Zuko directly in the eyes. “Do you think I’d be kicked out of the park if I asked Rey what it’s like to kiss Adam Driver’s luscious lips? Like, that man <em>has </em>to exfoliate, right? Or at least use a shit ton of Chapstick?”</p>
<p>Zuko doesn’t know to respond to this for a solid fifteen seconds. Then, a snort escapes his nose. A bubbling chuckle follows. Like a dam springing a leak only to gush into a great, swelling wave, laughter roars out unbidden. It’s a hacking sound, like a leaf blower starting up—like Zuko hasn’t laughed in years (maybe because he hasn’t). Sokka’s laughter joins, though his are punctuated by the occasional little groan of ‘ow, my face.’ It makes them laugh harder.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*your author was counting: it was eight and a half questions in one minute</p>
<p>**the author kids you not: there really is lore about a ‘swamp cabbage man’ (aka the ‘Florida Bigfoot/Swampsquatch’) which gives a whole new complexity to the Cabbage Man.</p>
<hr/>
<p>There’s a natural flow to parties: people ebbing toward the snack table, loading their plates before flowing through clumps of chatting friends, drifting past the Mario Kart tournament, or floating into the kitchen to watch Sokka and some hot guy with a facial scar flirt without really knowing they’re flirting. It’s both endearing and a little pathetic, like basset hound puppies.</p>
<p>Katara, a cancer and therefore a water sign, prefers to follow the natural current of the party, wending her way through Aang’s apartment until she’s deposited on the couch next to Hot-Scar-Guy. Somehow, Sokka’s let him out of his sight—she never would have guessed it possible—and he manages to look awkwardly apart on his little patch of the tangerine orange couch. The mere idea of personal bubbles pops the second someone steps into Aang’s apartment, people crowding in on every side, and yet Hot Guy appears isolated.</p>
<p><em>What was his name again? </em>Katara wonders, only about to come up with Aang’s nickname for him, ‘Dr. McDreamy.’</p>
<p>(She doesn’t listen to <em>every </em>episode of <em>Cryptid: Decoded—</em>she’s a high school English teacher with over one-hundred-thirty students, sometimes some things gotta give—but Aang specifically told her to listen to the ‘Chew and Chat’ two weeks ago if she wanted a gold mine of material to mortify Sokka for the rest of his days. She’s glad she took Aang’s recommendation).</p>
<p>Turning to him, Katara asks, “You’re a friend of my brother’s, right?”</p>
<p>Hot Guy’s head jerks away from the Mario Kart tournament—Toph (as Yoshi) currently races alongside Haru, Smellerbee, and the Duke and it’s awe-inspiring how much she’s absolutely decimating them—blinking in rapid succession. He looks genuinely alarmed to have been spoken to, and Katara feels a teensy bit guilty, like she startled a baby fawn.</p>
<p>His eyes round owlishly, and the tips of his ears turn the faintest pink. “Er, yeah, you’re his sister, Katara, right?”</p>
<p>She slats on a smile—the one she wears to disarm irate parents during parent-teacher conferences—replying, “What gave it away? Our strikingly similar good looks?” And it’s probably because she’s had some of Sokka’s vodka punch, but she wiggles her eyebrows for added, uh, <em>striking-ness</em>?</p>
<p>“Um.” Hot Guy hesitates. Pointing a vague finger at her throat, he replies, “Well, no, it’s your necklace. You…uh,” he pauses, looking deeply regretful. Only because Katara’s literally squashed next to him on the couch does she hear: “You described it on the podcast one time.”</p>
<p>And she had: during a ‘Chew and Chat’ segment, when Aang came down with a case of bronchitis and Katara filled in for a special ‘Sibling Tell-All’ segment. Katara gave a recount of Sokka’s first kiss while playing spin the bottle at her thirteenth birthday party (it had been co-ed in a truly scandalous move for middle-schoolers, and Sokka and Suki’s braces got locked together. The fire department was called, and Suki still insists to this day trauma-bonding is to blame for her and Sokka’s two-year relationship afterward). Meanwhile, Sokka gave a vivid description of Katara’s state in a swimming conference during her senior year, when she was trying to strut past the very shredded Olympian, Nathan Adrien (he was there as a Nike brand ambassador). She hit a patch of water—pool decks do tend to be slippery—and ate shit. At some point in the tell-all, Katara’s necklace had been mentioned.</p>
<p>And yet, the episode aired <em>years </em>ago, in the early months of <em>Cryptid: Decoded. </em>“You’re a listener?” she asks before amending herself: “A longtime listener?”</p>
<p>He shifts on the couch, accidentally bumping her. “Sorry, um, yeah.” He leans as far away as he can—which isn’t far—his thumbs beginning to twirl, around and around and around. It’s kind of hypnotic. “I used to listen to all sorts of paranormal podcasts because of, um…my sleep paralysis…but then I found Sokka and Aang’s show, and I’ve only listened to them since.”</p>
<p>Katara gets the sense she’s been granted precious information for reasons neither she nor Hot Guy really understand. But then, the things high school kids have confided in her are equally as intense, so she doesn’t question it. She begins carefully, “Well I’m sure they’re happy to know they help you in some way. Sokka’s always worrying about if his listeners are getting anything out of the show. He says that if he can just offer, like, a laugh or a moment of happiness as a relief from everyday life-stress, then the podcast does its job.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, they definitely do that,” Hot Guy assures, as if Katara had a stake in Sokka’s creative crises. Which, she supposes she does, since he vents to her constantly. “You know, I listen to him on my way to work every morning, and it’s like I’m talking with friends.” Hot Guy ducks his head, as if dodging his own embarrassing admission.</p>
<p>Katara doesn’t miss how he says ‘him,’ not ‘them’ (she <em>is </em>an English teacher, after all), but doesn’t prod. “I love that. Wholesome as heck.” Pause. “So, what’s your favorite episode?”</p>
<p>Hot Guy takes a moment to nibble at his lower lip, <em>and wow, this guy’s adorable; Sokka better snatch him up quick before someone else moves in. </em>“Probably the vanishing hotel room.”</p>
<p>“Oh, what’s that?”</p>
<p>“You don’t listen to all the podcasts?”</p>
<p>Katara shrugs. “I used to, but now I only listen when one of the boys insist I should, like if there’s a really good story or an interesting anecdote on ‘Chew and Chat.’” She lets implication rest on ‘interesting,’ stretching it out to new meaning, and a click of realization flickers behind Hot Guy’s eyes. Katara knows both of their minds replay Sokka’s gushing over Hot Guy simultaneously, as if their memories are broadcasted to each other, but Hot Guy carefully schools his expression smooth. <em>Oh he’s good, </em>Katara thinks, <em>but not </em>that <em>good:</em> he can’t hide his now flaming-red ears.</p>
<p> Hot Guy coughs. “Um, well, so the vanishing hotel room. It’s a story supposedly from the Paris World Fair, back in the 1880s, and this daughter leaves her mom in their hotel room to go explore or whatever, since she’s, you know, young and in Paris. So, when she comes back, her rooms are completely redecorated but her mom’s gone. But, the way Aang and Sokka told it, it felt like unfolding one of those paper fortune-tellers from elementary school?”</p>
<p>“Oh yeah, I remember those!”</p>
<p>“Yeah, like those. They would carefully unfold each piece of the story, revealing bit by bit, and you never really knew what was going to happen until all the pieces were unfolded and you got a full picture. So, the daughter…well, do you want me to spoil it?”</p>
<p>He looks at her so earnestly—genuinely worried about ruining the story—Katara can’t help a fond smile. “Spoil away,” she insists.</p>
<p>“Okay, well, so the daughter went to the police, but no one believed her, the hotel staff all played dumb, and then there was even alleged sighting of the girl’s missing mom at another hotel entirely. I’ve listened to it again a few times, and it keeps me on edge every time. It’s so good.”</p>
<p>“Wow, so you’re, like, a proper super-fan?” Katara asks. When Hot Guy stares hard down at his thumbs (they’ve picked up speed: <em>aroundandaroundandaround</em>) she dares to bump his shoulder with hers. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way, you know.”</p>
<p>He gives her a barely-there smile. “Um, yeah, I guess.”</p>
<p>A stretched-out pause. Katara prompts: “So how’d the story end?”</p>
<p>“The daughter found her mother’s body at the bottom of the laundry chute. Apparently, she’d been dying from tuberculosis, and the hotel staff found her after she died. They didn’t want it getting out that TB had been in the hotel, so they got rid of the mom and pretended like she didn’t exist. I always liked…um, well, I always liked the thought that someone could love their family so much, they’d persist in finding out the truth, even if it looks more and more likely that the truth might not be the happy ending they were looking for.”</p>
<p>Hot Guy frowns for a moment , a familiar expression Katara’s seen on her students: it always comes at the end of an independent writing time, when her students stumble across the main idea of their essay in the very last line; that one big idea they’ve been chasing around for five pages but only just managed to articulate. Everything in Katara itches to ask, to poke until he explains why the hell he’s getting so misty-eyed over an urban legend from one hundred years ago.</p>
<p>But then, Suki wedges herself in the narrow sliver of space between Katara and Smellerbee. The latter’s still getting her ass served to her by Toph.</p>
<p>“Did you know,” Suki begins without preamble, “that your brother likes to <em>microwave </em>his cereal?”</p>
<p>“Hello to you, too, Suki,” Katara returns laughingly. “Suki this is, err, sorry, I never asked your name?”</p>
<p>Hot Guy raises a hand, offering: “I’m Zuko.”</p>
<p>“Hey, Zuko, nice to meet you,” Suki returns, leaning forward to smile at him around Katara, her cute little bob all shiny and glossy in the apartment’s yellow light. Sometimes, Katara finds it deeply annoying how Suki’s been beautiful at every stage of life (and Katara’s bore witness to it all; Suki’s been a friend since well before she got her braces tangled with Sokka’s). “I’m Suki.”</p>
<p>He blinks at the name, his eyebrows chugging an inch closer, and Katara knows he’s slotting information about her dropped on <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>with the real-life woman before him. “Err, nice to meet you, too.”</p>
<p>“So, Zuko, tell me, what’s a normal way to eat cereal?” Suki asks, not to be deterred.</p>
<p>Zuko hesitates, as if this question demands a great amount of consideration. “Um, well, put it in a bowl with milk and eat it with a spoon?”</p>
<p>“And you’d be right, because you’re a sane human being.” Suki inclines her head. “And do you prefer mushy or crunchy cereal?”</p>
<p>Knowing where she’s going with this—Katara’s lived with Sokka’s cereal habits for twenty-six years—she interjects: “Crunchy while also being slightly damp is the obvious answer, but consider Frosted Mini Wheats.”</p>
<p>Suki raises an eyebrow. “Alright, I’m considering.”</p>
<p>“Well, you want the frosted part to be crunchy, but the wheat part to be really soggy, so you have to, like, leave it for fifteen minutes and let it do its thing,” Katara explains. She’s heard the Cereal TEDtalk from Sokka multiple times, she’s basically just reciting it now.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I agree with you there, but letting it get soggy doesn’t mean we should then <em>microwave </em>it!” Suki exclaims emphatically. She nearly elbows Smellerbee in the face, making her character (Toadette) swerve dangerously close to the edge of Rainbow Road. “Sorry, ‘Bee.”</p>
<p>“Is there a reason for the microwaving?” Zuko asks.</p>
<p>“Apparently it’s ‘poor man’s oatmeal,’” Suki replies, using air-quotes and all.</p>
<p>“Which is dumb, because instant oats are literally cheaper than Sokka’s Lucky Charms,” Katara adds. “Do you want to know how much Sokka spends on cereal?”</p>
<p>“How much?”</p>
<p>Katara bursts, “Forty dollars <em>every two weeks!”</em></p>
<p>“I’m wondering about the proportions of cereal to milk while microwaving,” Zuko adds, a little shy smile daring to grow bigger. And, yeah, Katara gets her brother’s infatuation. “Like what’s the ratio so it’s the right amount of soggy?”</p>
<p>Suki nods. “Good question, and lucky for you, I teach math. I’d guess it’d be two-thirds cereal to one-third milk? Don’t know if any ratio would keep it from being a literal hot mess, though.”</p>
<p>“You know, I think Aang has a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch,” Katara offers. “We could do some experimentation and test our hypothesis?”</p>
<p>And that’s how Katara finds herself microwaving cereal with Suki and her brother’s not-boyfriend. No matter the ratio, each bowl comes out disgusting every time and they only stop when they run out of cereal (the box was nearly empty to begin with, though). Still, Katara leaves an ‘I owe you’ note for Aang.</p>
<p>(Katara won’t realize the acrobatics Aang’s heart performs: she signed the note with ‘Love, Katara.’ He knows it doesn’t <em>really </em>mean love, but he’s an idiot <em>in</em> love, so he’s not liable to think rationally.)</p>
<hr/>
<p>Zuko’s feeling ill even before Aang hops onto the ping-pong table and calls for everyone’s attention. He’s eaten too much lukewarm cereal, confessed to Sokka’s sister he listens to the podcast pathetically often, and said that embarrassingly deep thing about the vanishing hotel room. It cut too close, felt too raw and real, and it’s <em>not </em>the thing to say to a stranger—a stranger who happens to be blood-related to his (<em>very unrequired</em>) crush. Now, with Aang on the table and smiling at everyone in the room, Zuko’s queasiness turns to nausea.</p>
<p>He inches towards the balcony door.</p>
<p>“Hey again, everyone!” Aang begins. He’s wearing a homemade sash reading ‘One Special Boy’ and a cone-shaped party hat. There’s a pom-pom on top. “I just wanted to say thanks again for coming to the party; it really means a lot that each and every one of you are here.”</p>
<p>As if sensing Zuko’s escape plans, Aang’s eyes catch his, the message telegraphed there reading clear: ‘<em>I’m including you, too, Zuko.’</em></p>
<p>Aang continues: “You’ve made this Gotcha Day super awesome, and I’m so lucky to have you guys as my friends.”</p>
<p>From somewhere near the kitchen—Zuko can’t tell where exactly, between all the heads and party hats—Sokka yells, “Go home, Aang, you’re drunk!”</p>
<p>A cackling laugh, Aang shooting back: “You can’t tell me to leave when I’m in my own apartment!” Sokka must stick out his tongue, because Aang retaliates with pugging his nose and crossing his eyes. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. Go back to your Mario-Karting or whatever.”</p>
<p>Zuko doesn’t wait to see Aang vault down from the ping-pong table, engulfed by a tidal wave of friends. Instead, he snags the doorknob and slips out onto a narrow balcony before the room can entirely suffocate him, before his own out-of-place-ness can choke him. Yet, as he goes to snap the door shut behind him, though, Appa sticks his great black nose in before managing to worm the hulking rest of his body through the narrow sliver of the open doorway. “You feeling overwhelmed, too?” Zuko asks Appa, scratching his ears.</p>
<p>Appa leans against Zuko’s leg, staring up at him with his inky, soulful eyes. Eyes that have seen infinity, known infinity, and Zuko’s ache of loneliness eases marginally.</p>
<p>Settling at the edge of the balcony, legs threaded between the bars and dangling downward, Zuko stares out at patchwork of lights, cement, and powerlines cross-crossing and bisecting the city yawning out below his feet. The bite of winter air nibbles at his cheeks, chasing away the warm closeness after being too confined in an apartment for too long. Aang’s on the seventh floor, barely taller than its neighbors, offering a squirrel’s eye view of Lincoln Park and the bright knot of lights south, towards the city’s main business hub, the Loop.</p>
<p>Somewhere, in the darkened neighborhoods below, is the Jasmine Dragon, and Zuko’s medical practice, and his empty apartment. Below him is ordinary life, a circuit of three locations where things like warm cereal and debates on <em>Star Wars </em>and cramped apartments brimming with friends simply do not exist. They would muck up his usual routines, clash horribly with the décor of his carefully regulated life: this party isn’t his reality. He’s somehow tricked these people into thinking he’s a good person, someone worth laughing and joking with at a party he should never have been invited to; that he’s someone who has something worth listening to.</p>
<p>It’s too much.</p>
<p>He doesn’t deserve these people, <em>I don’t deserve Sokka, </em>Zuko thinks, before forcing himself to viciously add: <em>Not that he’d ever want me back, of course. </em></p>
<p>And Zuko can’t blame him for not wanting him. Even if he hadn’t panicked and mentioned patient-doctor confidentiality, he’s literally broken; he’s teetering on the brink of signing off on something deeply unethical; he doesn’t even love his family enough to keep persisting at the truth. <em>But what truth is that? That we’re all hideous at our cores and beyond redemption? </em>Zuko wonders. He doesn’t need to dig far to confirm that.</p>
<p>His phone vibrates. Checking the screen, he sees it’s his reality, crowding back in on him as a reminder he’s misplaced here at the party. As if summoned by Zuko’s thoughts, Ozai has texted him. The text preview reads: ‘Progress report. What’s the delay?’</p>
<p>Then, a second text: ‘It’s been five days.’</p>
<p>Zuko’s thumbs hover, desperately wanting to unlock the phone and shoot off a rash reply. Something pithy and scathing like: ‘Yes, Father, thank you. Interestingly enough, I do have a concept of time.’ But it wouldn’t be worth it. The little jabs at his Father are met with too harsh of retribution to feel like victories, even for a fleeting second. He pockets his phone instead and cuddles into Appa.</p>
<p>Behind him the door opens. It squeaks shut. “I thought I saw you sneak out here.”</p>
<p>Twisting to glance over his shoulder, confirming it’s Sokka though he recognized his phone on the first syllable, Zuko aims for joking, “I wasn’t trying to be sneaky.”</p>
<p>His ‘joking’ comes out defensive. Zuko returns to staring out at the city, not wanting to watch Sokka’s real-time reaction. He’s focusing so hard on looking out, he doesn’t really <em>see</em> anything: his other senses are tuned and alive with the inherent electricity Sokka’s mere presence seems to generate. His ears register every shuffling step of Sokka coming to sit, his nose picks up the faint traces of Sokka’s cologne.</p>
<p>Silence, Sokka settling to stare out at the city, too. Then: “Sorry if it was overwhelming in there…or, or if it was something someone said. Especially if it was something <em>I </em>said.”</p>
<p>Zuko can’t help looking at Sokka, finding him looking back.</p>
<p>With the light spilling out from the living room through plastic window slats and strings of Edison bulbs, half of Sokka’s face is cast in an orangey glow, the other left darkened by the murky blueness of night. Zuko sees two Sokkas mashed into one: the brightly exuberant podcaster, who makes every conversation seem like the most interesting one in the world, and the living, breathing, and <em>very close</em> man, who makes every conversation <em>with Zuko </em>seem like the most interesting in the world. A dueling mask of public and private personas, and Zuko can’t help wondering if perhaps Sokka doesn’t delineate between them: that, perhaps, he could mention a romantic interest in a podcast and it be more than a joke about ‘Dr. McDreamy.’</p>
<p><em>But you’ll never know, because you killed every ‘if’ you could have had with him with doctor-patient confidentiality, </em>Zuko reminds himself. He tears his eyes from Sokka.</p>
<p>“What are you apologizing for?” he finds himself saying.</p>
<p>“Well, you’re sitting out here alone and I thought—” Zuko imagines Sokka plugging the silence with a shrug, but he’s not quite brave enough to look “—well, I thought something must have happened.”</p>
<p>Zuko can’t help the little rueful huff of laughter (and he kind of hates he’s now someone who does things <em>ruefully.) </em>“No, nothing happened. It’s more like everything happened, if that makes sense?”</p>
<p>“Honestly? No, not really.”</p>
<p>Zuko can <em>hear </em>Sokka’s grin lilting up his voice, and his own smile briefly pulls up. He says, “I guess I appreciate the honesty.” Pause. Sokka lets Zuko pause, and it surprises him. On the podcast, it always seems Sokka has a compulsive need to fill every second of air-space, rambling ad nauseum. Yet, now, he allows the silence to linger, inhabiting it, comfortable in simply sitting next to Zuko. As if there’s no other place he’d rather be. It startles out the second admission Zuko hadn’t planned on sharing this evening: “I panicked.”</p>
<p>“Huh? I thought you said, or kind of implied, that nothing happened inside—?”</p>
<p>“No, sorry, I guess that wasn’t clear.” Zuko forces himself to look at Sokka. He owes him that much. “I panicked at the Jasmine Dragon, when I said I couldn’t go to the cemetery with you because of professionalism or whatever.”</p>
<p>Sokka’s gone very still. When a second snails by, Zuko blinking and waiting for some kind of reaction, Sokka finally rallies his cerebral facilities. “Okay, um, why did you panic?”</p>
<p>“Um,” Zuko croaks. He suddenly realizes why he never confesses truths, why he never shares his feelings: it leads to awkward questions he desperately doesn’t want to answer. But he’s started now, so he might as well continue: “Because you’re…I’m…I mean, I guess I should’ve said that professionalism is an issue. If we were to go anywhere as a date-looking-thing, it’d be really bad—but, but I’m not saying the cemetery was going to be a date! Don’t want to imply or…or anything.”</p>
<p>Zuko begins to mentally calculate the likelihood of a freak thunderstorm breaking out overhead and a lightning bolt smiting him.</p>
<p>“Wait.” He peeks at Sokka. Sokka repeats: “Wait, so does that mean you’d go to the cemetery with me if we had, like, a chaperone or something?”</p>
<p>“A chaperone?” Zuko echoes, stupefied, because <em>that’s what Sokka got from that confession?</em></p>
<p>Sokka nods. “Yeah, we could get Aang to come! Not hard to convince him to go anywhere crawling with spirits, and I can probably get him to bust out the spirit box. Not sure how—”</p>
<p>Recovering, Zuko splutters, “Wait, wait, you still want to go?”</p>
<p> “Well, yeah, do you not?” Sokka asks, visibly deflating.</p>
<p>“Yeah, of course I want to go!” He resists tacking on: ‘<em>it’s a literal dream to ghost-hunt with the</em> Cryptid: Decoded <em>Ghoul Boys.’ </em>Instead he finds himself trying to dissuade Sokka: “It’s just, it’s just, why would <em>you </em>want to? I haven’t been honest with you—”</p>
<p>“You barely knew me then, it’s understandable—”</p>
<p>“And I should’ve just talked about the whole doctor situation instead of hiding behind it. It was pretty childish of me—”</p>
<p>“But you apologized and explained yourself, and seriously, I get it—”</p>
<p>“And I’m not like all your friends in there, I don’t belong here—</p>
<p> “I mean, you did just meet them, so of course you’re not like them <em>yet—</em>"</p>
<p>“No, you don’t get it! I’m not a good person!” Zuko bursts, frustration mounting to a boiling point, the heat in his chest stoked by Sokka’s forgiveness. Every argument Zuko’s ever fought—against Father, against his sister—his opponent retaliates with anger, raining ruin down. He knows how to handle it, how to shield himself from the burns, and he’d rather have Sokka match his fire instead of trying to douse it with sympathy.</p>
<p>Yet, the anger never comes. Instead, Sokka’s mouth snaps shut, lips pressing thin and a frown weighing down the corners. His eyebrows slant together. He reaches toward Appa, and Zuko moves his fingers only to still, Sokka catching his hand with his own. “Listen, I get that I don’t know you at all and if you don’t want to be friends, that’s cool.” Sokka’s voice is soft, almost lost to the wind. “But everyone here thinks you’re great, and we’re pretty good judges of character, I think. Could you maybe give us—<em>me</em>—a chance to make my own opinion if you’re a good person or not?”</p>
<p>“I, uh…why?” The anger abruptly fizzles from Zuko, leaving him limp and deflated. Letting Appa lean on him, Zuko asks, “Why would you even bother?”</p>
<p>Sokka shrugs, giving him a cheeky grin. “Because you know where the Bigfoot capitol of the world is, and that means a lot to someone like me.”</p>
<p>Zuko finds himself nodding. He can’t sustain eye contact for long—not after whatever moment just happened, a moment so monumental, it feels as though the entire world has shifted on its axis—but he savors Sokka holding his hand, Sokka smiling at him like <em>that</em>. He buries his nose in Appa’s fur to disguise his dumb smile.</p>
<p>(He doesn’t know Sokka can see his smile, illuminated by the string lights and glinting brighter than any electric bulb.)</p>
<hr/>
<p>[Text conversations retrieved from Sokka Imiq’s phone]</p>
<p>11:43 PM Friday, March 27<sup>th</sup></p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Hey!! This is Sokka so u can have my number</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Hi, Zuko here :)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>01:13 AM Saturday, March 28<sup>th</sup></p>
<p><strong>Sokka</strong>: sooooo how do u feel about doing a little location recon tomorrow afternoon while also chaperoning a not-date??</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>technically, it’s this afternoon</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>im feeling good about that but will only do so on one condition</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>name your price</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>i get two questions you have to answer</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>ya, shoot</p>
<p><strong> Aang</strong>: 1) chaperone?? 2) not-date???</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>welllll, turns out Zuko’s down to hang-out but he made it clear that it’s not a date and also that it needs to definitely not look like a date, so we need a chaperone so no one thinks he’s doing something undoctory</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>WAIT I HAVE A FRONT ROW SEAT TO THE ABSOLUTE DISASTER THAT IS YOU TRYING TO GET ZUKO??? <em>THE </em>DR MCDREAMY????</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I hate u</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>omg omg I can’t wait to tell Katara wow she’s going to be so jealous</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>don’t u dare</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>omg I knew flexing the podcast would catch him!! did he swoon over our subscription numbers??? Bc, obvi there are more things to life than internet fame, but also its /so/ swoon-worthy</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I really REALLY hate u</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>And no I didn’t tell him about the subscriptions or the podcast, so don’t mention it!!</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>wait why not??</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I’ll get around to it. need to find the right opening</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>…maybe when you mention your job? Or your interests? Or what you do in your spare time? or literally anything about u????</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>bro, the podcast is your life, u have to bring it up</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>there isn’t anything to worry about! The podcast is dope and you talking about him is only kinda embarrassing. Like, not a fatal wound</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>He’ll be into it!!</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>Sokka.</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>Sokka?</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>Sokka, you don’t get to ghost me just because I’m right</p>
<p> </p>
<p>01:38 AM Saturday, March 28<sup>th</sup></p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Hey, just wanted to make sure you got home safe and also to say it was really awesome to see you at the party!!</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Yeah, sorry, meant to text earlier! I’ve been home for about ten minutes, just taking care of my dog</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>And great to see you, too! Sorry for getting all depressed and dumping all that sad stuff on you</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Srsly don’t apologize. It kind of felt like a necessary bonding moment for us to become actual friends haha</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Not that I didn’t consider us friends before!</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>But, I need to reciprocate now and tell u some secret about me</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>nooo, you don’t have to</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>yeah, ur right, we should save this for in person</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>which is totally a good segue for me asking you to the cemetery tomorrow afternoon if you’re free?</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>That is a good segue. It’s a good enough segue to ride up Michigan Ave. On a segue tour, I’d say</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>omg, do you think I could make merch for it? ‘Sokka’s Sights by Segue’???</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>I’d definitely buy a t-shirt, and maybe get on a tour</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>but only if you were one of those tour guides who are obviously failed theater majors</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>ouch, coming for the theater majors and they’re not even here to defend themselves</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>also, that seemed weirdly specific; got a story to share??</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>lol sorry and sort of? I had a tour guide when I went to Scotland who had this fake Scottish accent, acted like a Medieval Times knight, and recited Macbeth. Like, the entire play</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Let me guess: he was actually American</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Honestly can’t say? Probably? Dude was so committed to the accent and persona, he wouldn’t say when we asked</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>do you think he’d come work for my segue company?</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>and be the absolute scourge of Michigan Ave/the Loop?</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Tbh, had to look up the word ‘scourge’ but yes, I want him to be the scourgiest</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>I actually think I have his business card somewhere in my junk drawer. Let me try to find it. It was actually kind of fancy??</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Like printed on vellum in illuminated calligraphy?</p>
<p><strong>Zuko</strong>: how the hell do you not know the word scourge but know about vellum and illuminated calligraphy? Are you actually a time traveling monk from the 9<sup>th</sup> century?</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I went on a Wikipedia rabbit hole awhile ago and ended up reading about monks, what can I say? Normal interests for a normal guy*</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>You literally own a bigfoot shirt; there’s nothing normal about you</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Like how I keep suggesting a cemetery as a cool hang-out?</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>I see what you did there. But yeah, like that</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Soooo?</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Soooo what time are you thinking?</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Like 2:30ish? It should be warm(er) by then. We can meet at the Jasmine Dragon before and get coffee to help protect ourselves from the chill</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Yeah, okay! So, how about 2 at the Jasmine Dragon? Do you mind if I bring my dog?**</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I’ll check to make sure the cemetery is chill with dogs, but, sure, sounds great! Looking forward to it :)</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Me too :)</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Good night! See you tomorrow (or, I guess later today?)</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>lol, yeah! See you then!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*the author feels it’s important the reader knows Sokka, while studying King James I’s <em>Daemonologie </em>for a podcast episode<em>, </em>actually ended up on this rabbit-hole dive because he began reading about how James was most likely an unsung gay icon</p>
<p>**the author also feels it’s important the reader knows Zuko typed and retyped this thirteen (13) times to try to capture a nonchalant tone. However, in the six minutes, forty two seconds, and eight milliseconds (6:42.8) Zuko typed and retyped, Sokka suffered four (4) major heart palpitations</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sokka finally fulfills his fate of becoming a cemetery tour guide.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Back to school feels weird this year; I've got a lot of time on my hands and, ironically enough, the loneliness gets in the way of writing. If only I could be ghost hunting in a cemetery somewhere, alas. On another, unrelated thought: the new Killers album is lit, and I've listened to it continuously as I wrote this.</p><p>As ever, my deepest thanks to @cinnamoncookies for beta'ing and supporting!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sokka’s never been early a day in his life.</p><p>He showed up late for his college graduation, got barred from AP testing in high school because he didn’t arrive on time, and was even born a whole two days late. Yet, here he is, sitting in the Jasmine Dragon fifteen minutes before Zuko’s supposed to arrive. He feels like he’s going to shake off his skin, he’s so jittery; his leg is going to run off on its own, it’s bouncing so much. He checks his phone: 1:46 pm.</p><p>Time can’t <em>actually </em>be moving slower, right?</p><p>Grateful Uncle Iroh’s Saturday Pai Sho game isn’t at the Jasmine Dragon for once, and therefore he’s not around to ask awkward questions about Sokka’s not-date, he fishes out his Samsung and queues up yesterday’s ‘Chew and Chat’ episode. It’s an exercise in sadism—he always catches mistakes, sound bites he wishes he could reedit when he listens after they’re aired—but at least it can distract him from compulsively checking his watch or staring creepily at every person who walks into the café. He toggles to the middle of the episode, letting it play:</p><p>“Thanks a lot for the feedback about the Athenaeum, we really appreciate it! We got a lot of mail in our inbox this week because of it, so Aang, would you do the honors and read the first email?” Sokka’s own voice tells him. Sokka winces: he hates how he sounds. All eager and bombastic, like he’s over-compensating for something.</p><p>“Sure! Let’s see.” A pause, Aang pulling up the podcast’s email. “Okay, here’s our first one! It’s from our friend, the Blue Spirit! Thanks for writing again, buddy.” Sokka smashes his finger into the pause button, his breath catching, because is that—?</p><p><em>No, </em>the young man who entered the café shucks off his knitted cap, revealing hair with frosted tips. <em>Ew, Zuko would never, </em>Sokka thinks, hitting the play button again. Aang resumes talking: “Alright, they say: ‘Hey Aang and Sokka, thanks for reading my email last time and giving such a great reply. It was really deep and thought-provoking, and I’ve been thinking it over for literally a week.’ Thanks, dude! That’s nice of you to say!”</p><p>“Yeah, and could you say it more often so people will remember that we’re actually pretty smart?” Sokka interjects.</p><p>“Or smart when we choose to be,” Aang amends. Listening in the Jasmine Dragon, Sokka nods and grins just as he did while recording. Neither he nor Aang can deny their charm exists in their stupidity, but sometimes reminding the audience they have more than one brain cell is important to their self-confidence. Aang’s recorded voice continues: “Okay, let’s keep reading. The Blue Spirit goes on to say: ‘So, I’m in a bit of a difficult situation that I need some objective advice on. I’ve talked to some family members about it, but I think an outsider’s perspective might be useful.’”</p><p>“<em>Ooooh</em>, advice!” Sokka coos. “I love to give my totally unfounded advice!”</p><p>“Same, but just to be clear, neither of us are professionals, so if you take our advice and it turns out horribly, then you can’t sue us, okay?”</p><p>“Wait, Aang, you literally are a professional.”</p><p>Sokka can <em>hear </em>Aang’s eyeroll. “I’m a professional in helping children with trauma, not anonymous adults on podcasts.”</p><p>"Fair, but can you imagine if that was your actual job?”</p><p>“Aang: certified internet armchair psychologist,” Aang chimes. The boys dissolve into laughter at their own dumb tangent. After a solid fifteen seconds of chortling—Sokka checks his watch as he listens, timing it, deeply regretful he didn’t edit out this part—Aang composes himself. “Sorry, sorry. Back to the email: ‘My father has asked me to help him with his business, but what he’s asking me to do is kind of illegal and would put my own career in danger. The thing is, if I did what he asked, it’d really help his business, which he’s always said I’ll inherit one day. I’m not sure what to do: I don’t want to disappoint my dad, and I feel like I have an obligation to the family business. What do you think?’”</p><p>Sokka remembers the look Aang gave him after reading the Blue Spirit’s email: Aang’s patented Oh Shit™ look, all wide eyes and climbing eyebrows. Sokka broke the silence, saying: “Whoa, okay, this is a lot heavier than our usual monster-sightings and possession-panic advice-seeking.” Pause. “So, let’s summarize: we have a douche-bag father who’s asking his kid to do something morally reprehensible.”</p><p>“I’m surprised you know the word ‘reprehensible,’” Aang pigeons in before hurrying on, ignoring Sokka’s offended squawk. “Anyway, yes. Blue Spirit, your dad sounds like an actual psychopath. If he loves you and wants what’s best for the family, he’d realize that putting his kids first and, you know, making sure they’re <em>not </em>arrested, is more important than some business thing.”</p><p>“I second everything Aang said. Your old man sounds like a capitalist pig—”</p><p>“Hey, Sokka, what are you listening to?”</p><p>Sokka yelps, fingers scrambling to pause the episode as he yanks the earphone cord from his ears. He jerks his head up so quickly, he’s worried he gives himself whiplash: Zuko, bundled in a stylish camel coat with a plaid scarf stands over the little table. <em>Damn, he looks so good, </em>Sokka thinks before he can suppress it with platonic, not-date thoughts. At Zuko’s booted feet, sits the cutest dog Sokka’s ever seen (don’t tell Appa).</p><p>“Oh, uh, sorry, I guess I was too lost in a podcast,” Sokka replies, carefully avoiding the question, scrambling to his feet only to coo to Zuko’s dog: “And who are you? Are you the handsomest boy I’ve ever seen? Yes, you are!”</p><p>The black dog, his pointy-ear perking and his flappy-ear seeming to be ever flappier, thumps its tail. Sokka scratches behind his ears, under his chin, as Zuko replies, “This is Druk. Thanks for checking with the cemetery for me if I can bring him. I really hate leaving him on the weekends; it’s the only time we really get to hang-out.”</p><p>Sokka tucks his chin to hide his smile, endeared Zuko considers his dog humanoid enough to put aside special, weekly hang-out time, and could Zuko be more perfect? <em>He’s a doctor, a cryptid-enthusiast, cute, funny, </em>and <em>a dog person? </em>It’s essentially a checklist for qualities in Sokka’s ideal man.</p><p><em>And remember this isn’t a date, </em>he reminds himself, straightening to fix Zuko with the most platonic of smiles and suggest with the most platonic of tones they go order coffee. Aang texted with his order, and he’s expecting them at the cemetery in a half an hour.</p>
<hr/><p>Aang and Appa wait at the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery, huddling against a bare tree to hide from the blasts of wind that funneled up Clark street. Even on a relatively warmer early spring day, Chicago streets have a charming way of turning into wind tunnels.</p><p>As Sokka and Zuko approach, meandering along to accommodate Sokka on his crutches, Aang peels himself from the tree, stepping out into the sidewalk to offer a cheerful wave and a “Hey! Nice of you guys to show up; I can’t feel my fingers!”. He gratefully takes the dirty chai Sokka offers him while Druk and Appa sniff each other. “You’re an angel,” Aang says, taking a reverent sip of tea. “I’m shivering so much, it feels like I’m dancing.”</p><p>Sokka rolls his eyes. To Zuko, he explains: “Aang is very delicate; he can’t stand being too hot or too cold.”</p><p>“I’m a precious flower in need of a carefully regulated climate,” Aang replies without a trace of irony.</p><p>“Yeah, okay,” Sokka returns dryly. Zuko ducks his head to keep from laughing, overcome with the strange feeling that forms once he realizes that he is listening to one of their banters in real life rather than on their podcast. Only he doesn’t actually <em>know </em>Aang well enough to laugh at him. “C’mon, let’s get spooky!” Sokka says, brandishing one of his crutches before setting off through the gates and along the worn blacktop drive of the cemetery. Like all roadways in Illinois, it shows years of wear and tear as it wends past squat groundskeeper buildings and into the brown grass fields dotted with headstones. “I’ve heard we have to check out the mausoleum and the Inez tomb.”</p><p>Aang and Zuko fall into step with Sokka, the dogs pattering along at their side. Zuko finds himself asking: “Do you guys go to a lot of cemeteries?”</p><p>Sokka tenses more than is reasonable for the question. Zuko holds his breath because he’d literally handed Sokka and Aang the chance to tell him about their podcast and his own choice stares him in the face: to confess he listens religiously or feign ignorance. Yet, if he admits to being a super-fan, he’d have to follow up with an awkward explanation on why he didn’t mention it before. Except, Sokka avoids the predicament entirely, saying with stilted airiness, “Oh yeah, we’re majorly into lurking around headstones.”</p><p>“You know, most people hate cemeteries, but I actually really like them,” Aang muses as Sokka’s map app has them hang a left at a fork in the road. “I think they’re peaceful.”</p><p>“Yeah, I love the thought of a bunch of skeletons, ripe for reanimation by an evil scientist, being buried just under my feet,” Sokka fires back dryly.</p><p>“Aren’t we all just skeletons waiting to join a skeleton army?” Zuko asks, wondering if—as an orthopedic doctor—this is sacrilegious to say.</p><p>Nodding, like Zuko somehow backed up his point, Aang enthuses: “Never have churro words been spoken.” Appa woofs, as if in agreement.</p><p>As they wander further into the cemetery, the ground under their feet gradually rises and falls in a subtle hilliness—or as hilly as Illinois can be. Zuko’s eyes drift along the rows of headstones, the faint inclines drawing his focus along the neat lines and towards the next rise crowned by a copse of naked trees. It made him want to plunge further, go deeper, into the cemetery, to walk along the rows of the dead and read each headstone. Sokka nor Aang comments when Zuko branches off to step into the grass and read a headstone or two, always waiting for him, always asking him to read aloud the headstones. At the fifth headstone he stops at, Druk sniffing at a sarcophagus low to the ground and hewn from marble, Zuko reads: “‘Daniel Elston, May 20, 1780–Sept. 13, 1855.’” Pause. “Do you ever think about how you’re reduced to two dates when you die?”</p><p>“Whoa, sad,” Aang mumbles.</p><p>“But think about everything Daniel did that <em>isn’t</em> written here; what if he was really good at, um, telling funny stories? That’s lost the second everyone you knew dies,” Zuko explains, knowing his ears are turning pink, and <em>wow, this entire outing was a horrible mistake. If I feign getting sick or forgetting about leaving my oven, maybe they’d—</em></p><p>Sokka interrupts Zuko’s downward progression. “Or maybe he was really into crafting. He could knit the best tea cozies you’ve ever seen, and we’d never know.”*</p><p>“Yeah! He probably gave them to all his grandchildren and great-grandchildren as Christmas gifts. Everyone was kind of annoyed he didn’t get them, like, a new washboard or something, but they all kind of humored him,” Aang tacks on, his words blurring together in excitement. A glint of glee shines in his eyes.</p><p>Grinning, Zuko nods. “Yeah, and what about his wife?” He points to the grave next to it. “She hated the long hours Daniel worked, but it gave her time to run a palm reading business out of her parlor.”</p><p>“All of her friends would insist she do readings at parties and shit,” Sokka agrees, and he’s grinning at Zuko in a way he doesn’t quite understand; or well, he <em>does </em>understand, but he refuses to linger on the implications <em>because it’s just wishful thinking.</em> “And she’d make excuses for a little bit because she’s rich and rich people have to have false-modesty, but then eventually she’d get talked into it, and it’d be awesome.”</p><p>“Dang, wow, I want a cool party trick like that,” Aang says. “All I can do is touch my tongue to my nose. Wanna see?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, demonstrating. Zuko grins, eyes catching Sokka’s, and laughter threatens to bubble up in a great, uncontrolled burst. Zuko hurriedly glances away, starting off along the road again, because laughing at someone you just met (not someone you listen to twice a week, every week) isn’t socially acceptable.</p><p>Sokka and Aang follow. When Zuko stops at more headstones as they go, it becomes a game to make up increasingly ridiculous backstories for the dearly departed. Zuko’s not sure if its disrespectful, but he does try to keep his laughter reined to a light guffaw. He fails.</p><p> </p><p>*in the interest of the reader fully appreciating the author’s research, Daniel Elston was actually a successful businessman and leader in the Chicago community. It is worth noting that he very well may have had an excellent sense of humor and made cozies in his spare time as there is no evidence to the contrary.</p>
<hr/><p>The trio—plus dogs—reach Lake Willowmere some fifteen minutes later. They stand along the shore of the ‘lake’ (more of a glorified pond) and stare across the water to the island at its center, a mausoleum inspired by an ancient Greek temple rising from thickets of cattails and reeds. “Man, this water isn’t helping my bladder,” Aang mutters.</p><p>“You gotta go?” Sokka asks, unnecessarily, as Aang’s doing a little dance, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot. “I think you’ll have to go all the way back to the entrance.”</p><p>Aang makes a throaty noise. “I’ll have to sprint.”</p><p>“Better get running,” Sokka replies, hobbling over to a stone bench under a tree before easing down. He leans his crutches besides him. Zuko doesn’t miss the briefest flash of pain contorting his face, as he shifts his weight away from his bad right leg. “The visitor’s center should be open.”</p><p>Aang, who didn’t miss Sokka’s expression either, eyes him worriedly. “I’ll be gone for a while; are you sure you’ll be okay?”</p><p>“Of course, I’ll just sit here. And Zuko’s here, my literal doctor, so nothing horrible can happen, right?” Sokka replies, before his eyes drift up to Zuko. “Unless you need to go, too?”</p><p>“Oh, no,” Zuko hurriedly assures, glancing between Aang and Sokka, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, like he’s watching a tennis match. “I’ll look after him.”</p><p>Aang hesitates a moment before nodding, and setting off at a hurried clip, throwing a promise over his shoulder that it wouldn’t take him more than ten minutes. Appa trots along at his side while Druk, apparently realizing they’re not going anywhere soon, plunks down in the grass and busies himself with a stick. </p><p>Zuko wavers for a moment, watching Sokka wriggle his fingers under the cast, before squatting in front of Sokka. His fingers hover, hesitating, trying to decide if he wanted to cradle Sokka’s heel or prod along the cast to check the leg’s healing progress. He’s lost in his examination, missing how Sokka abruptly withdraws his hands, staring at Zuko as if he might bite his fingers off—or that he didn’t bargain for them to be suddenly so close. “Your leg bothering you?” Zuko asks, nodding, silently asking permission to touch him and inspect the cast.</p><p>“Yeah, go for it,” Sokka replies. “And sort of? It just itches like crazy.”</p><p>“To be quite honest, I kind of forget you have a broken leg. You’re getting around really well,” Zuko admits, knowing it’s not very professional of him, as he eases Sokka’s foot into his lap, rolling up his jean pantleg to expose the cast. It’s covered in Sharpied signatures, rudimentary drawings, and well-wishes, and Zuko squints to read them in an attempt to avoid how intimate pushing up Sokka’s pants feel. For a heady moment, his imagination races past his tight regulation, conjuring wild images of pulling down Sokka’s pats at waistband, of undressing the rest of him, and it takes deep breaths to the count of ten before Zuko can tune back in to what Sokka says:</p><p>“Well thanks. Katara or Aang would tell you that I used to break a lot of limbs in high school, so I kind of had to teach myself how to get around, otherwise I’d have spent a quarter of my life bed-bound.”</p><p>Zuko doesn’t trust himself to reply just then, there’s still a very high likelihood he’ll close the short gap separating their mouths and kiss Sokka’s jabbering mouth until he forgot what he talked about; until both of their lungs burned for air and they had to break apart only to kiss some more after a few, desperate gasps. Sokka’s skin burns under Zuko’s hands; he can feel the toned muscles of his calves, the smooth, dark skin like satin, and Zuko <em>knows</em> he’s touch-starved, but this is really a new depth of pathetic. It’s a <em>leg, </em>not anything particularly sensual, and he needs to get a fucking grip. Besides, a graveyard isn’t the place for a romantic liaison; the spirits would probably be offended and haunt him for the rest of his days.</p><p>Sokka’s monologuing. “I guess I never really confessed to why I was night hiking, huh? It’s kind of an innuendo to even say that, ‘night-hike,’ I mean, because hiking was more of a by-product of going ghost-hunting. I had picked up an EMF signature of what I think was a ghost-soldier singing, and I kind of fell over a cliff. In my defense, though, it was a very small cliff.”</p><p>Zuko finishes massaging the skin around Sokka’s cast, easing tension from his muscles, and carefully rolls back down Sokka’s pantleg. “Well, were you at least able to pick up any recording for evidence?” He stands, brushing grass and dried leaves from his pantlegs.</p><p>“Wait, wait.” Sokka waves his hands. “Hold on; I just told you I was legitimately ghost-hunting and your response isn’t that I’m crazy or weird?”</p><p>Though he tries his best, his little affectionate smile—the smile Zuko’s <em>sure </em>broadcasted to Sokka and the entire world that he’s totally smitten—worms onto his mouth. “Do you <em>want </em>me to say you’re crazy and weird?”</p><p>“No, not really, just asking.”</p><p>Zuko’s smile threatens to widen. He barely keeps his composure. “Well, I already knew you were crazy <em>and </em>weird. I mean, we kind of established I am, too, since we’re here.” He waves at the cemetery around them. The city’s noises are muted this far in, the weak song of birds brave enough to brave the chill replacing it. <em>Honestly</em>, Zuko thinks<em>, it would be romantic if it weren’t for the dead people.</em></p><p>“I guess that’s fair,” Sokka concedes. “I just have never had anyone react calmly, not that I tell a lot of people that story. It’s kind of embarrassing.”</p><p>“Wow, I wonder why?” Zuko teases, though it hadn’t been something he was aware he had the courage to do: <em>tease Sokka.</em></p><p>“Shut up,” Sokka mumbles back, grinning like he actually doesn’t want Zuko to shut up at all. “And I meant more when I tell people about…well, so I guess there’s something I should have mentioned before. I mean, Aang’s told me to because it’s kind of a big part of my life, but I was nervous to, since you’re a doctor, and I didn’t think you’d be interested—err, you know, <em>interested in being friends </em>if you, um. If you knew.”</p><p>Zuko’s heart leaps to his throat. Feeling like he’s choking around it, he manages to wheeze out: “Knew about what?” But it’s a stalling tactic; he knows precisely what ‘big part of Sokka’s life’ is and why he wouldn’t want to share and <em>oh no, what am I going to say back? He’s putting major trust in me; I can’t lie and say I’ve never heard of it</em>. But could he tell the truth, and face the utter mortification that came along with it? He knows he doesn’t stand a chance of actual-model-Sokka-Imiq ever returning his feelings, but he hates the thought of Sokka distrusting him; if their fledging friendship was murdered in the cradle and Zuko didn’t even have the consolation of being around that warm laugh, that infectious smile, <em>those eyes.</em></p><p>“And it’s stupid that I didn’t tell you, because—as we’ve established—we’re both a little crazy and a little weird,” Sokka continues, waving a hand to include himself and Zuko. Zuko can’t help a little feeling of warmth at the thought of there being a ‘we’ between them. It’s quickly squelched by the realization Sokka won’t want there to be a ‘we’ when he hears Zuko’s been lying to him. “I guess I’m also a little afraid of you not liking it? It’s so important to me, and I really want you to—”</p><p>Sokka’s phone bings. His shoulders slouch, the wind—and courage—punched out of him. He fishes out his phone. After a second, he says, “Looks like Aang’s lost. He wants us to meet by the Inez statue. You know, the one that supposedly disappears in a thunderstorm?”</p><p>And Zuko could diffuse the tension lingering between them with a pithy joke (something like ‘no, I don’t know; you’ve never talked about it on <em>Cryptid: Decoded’), </em>he could bridge the sudden chasm between them, torn because of Sokka’s unwillingness to fully confess and his own to come clean. <em>But I can’t lose him—my only true friend—not after I just found him, </em>Zuko thinks, and decides to live with his deceit. He hopes (<em>prays) </em>it’s the right choice.</p><p>He says, “No, I’ve never heard of it. What’s the story?”</p>
<hr/><p>Aang declares himself frozen-through by the time they finish their tour of Graceland and wrangles them into an Uber and to a ramen shop in Boystown. Aang declares it a ‘tried and true favorite’ and Sokka can attest: he finds himself hunched over one of their ramen bowls at least every other week. When the boys and their dogs (they had to bribe the Uber driver to not make them pay extra, since Appa is the size of another human) bundle out of the SUV, they find Katara waiting for them.</p><p>“Oh hey, I invited Katara along,” Aang says, blithely, as if Sokka and Zuko couldn’t have guessed it.</p><p>“Hey! How was the cemetery?” asks Katara, hurrying forward. Only her face pokes out from under a garishly colored knit cap and above the high-zipped collar of her Nano-puff coat. She rubs a hand over Appa’s head in greeting.</p><p>“The right amount of spooky and peaceful,” Aang returns, leading them to the ramen shop and holding the door open. He briefly calls inside—asking permission to bring the dogs in and receiving affirmative—before he waves everyone through. “Ladies, guests, and the disabled first.”</p><p>Sokka sticks out his tongue but doesn’t complain about getting to hobble in first. After Zuko’s careful ministrations, the ache in his leg subsided temporarily, but the cold is beginning to sip in, making the ache return anew. He collapses at their usual table, right in the middle of the restaurant and under an atmospheric electric, paper lantern. The inside of the shop is decorated to look like an alleyway in some provincial Japanese town, as if the customer had been transported through time and space to stumble across a hole-in-the-wall ramen shop. Sokka swears it makes the noodles taste better.</p><p>“Is your leg hurting you?” Aang asks, sitting opposite Sokka. Sokka tries to watch without <em>too </em>much interest as Zuko visibly debates whether or not he ought to sit next to Aang or Sokka. Katara makes the decision for him, when she slides into the seat next to Aang, and after a moment, Zuko takes the seat next to Sokka like he’s expecting to sit on a tack.</p><p>“I have some Tylenol in my purse,” Katara offers; her purse is essentially a Mary Poppin’s bag; a symptom of being both a teacher and the designated mom-friend.</p><p>“Yeah, actually, I’ll take some,” Sokka concedes. It’s kind of a big deal for him, because he’s usually the ‘suffer in surly silence’ type.</p><p>Katara’s eyebrows jump but she doesn’t comment, instead fishing out the Tylenol bottle before sliding out of her seat. “I’ll go grab you water to take it with. Do you want me to order while I’m up there?” She juts her chin to the counter, where a gaggle of teenage boys are loudly debating which type of gyoza to get.*</p><p>“Yes, please,” Sokka replies. “I’ll venmo you?”</p><p>“Sure, the usual?” she asks, her eyes sweeping to include Aang, too.</p><p>“Yeah, thanks, Kat,” Aang replies, with a studied nonchalance. It’s fortunate Sokka’s leg-throbs are getting more frequent, otherwise he would have snorted and mercilessly embarrassed Aang. “I’ll go grab chopsticks and napkins and stuff.”</p><p>“And I’ll go with you, Katara,” Zuko volunteers, going to stand, too. “I need to check out the menu.”</p><p>“I can hang on to Druk if you want me to,” Sokka offers, smiling up at Zuko.</p><p>Zuko’s cheeks take on the faintest tinge of red, and Sokka’s heart performs a full tap routine at the knowledge <em>he caused that. </em>Handing over Druk’s leash, Zuko mutters, “Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it.”</p><p>Sokka gathers Druk into his lap, scratching the course fur of his head, and tries to ignore how the cold seems to creep back over his skin without Zuko at his side. Around pets, he makes a business of fiddling with his phone. There aren’t any new messages (and why would there be? Literally all of his friends are right here), so he goes to open his email. His heart leap-frogs into his throat while his stomach pits out; it’s an odd sensation, like he’s being yanked apart in two directions, a rubber-band pulled taut and ready to snap.</p><p>The Gmail account is still logged into the podcast inbox, the topmost email labeled ‘Re: Interview’ in the subject line. The sender’s address is yue.taqqiq@ember.com. Sokka’s thoughts ping around his skull lightning-quick, thinking about if the email came in during a ‘Chew and Chat’ recording, if Aang opened the inbox with the intention of reading fan mail only to be confronted with evidence Sokka’s been lying to him, considering severing their little found-family in Chicago, and abandoning all the hard work they’ve put in to making the podcast a success.</p><p>Of course, Aang would never articulate as much; he’s too much of a certifiable Nice Guy. But, after twelve years of friendship and seven years of best-friendship, Sokka could read Aang like a book (not that Sokka’s super into reading novels).</p><p>“What’s with the face?” Aang suddenly asks, and Sokka nearly chucks his phone across the shop.</p><p>Smothering a yelp as Druk squeaks in surprise, Sokka hurries to lock his phone before Aang can catch the damning words ‘interview’ or ‘thank you for your prompt response and interest in working with us.’ It’s the quickest flash of light, the guiltiest of phone-squirreling, and Sokka can’t be sure of what Aang did or didn’t see. He certainly knows something’s up; he’s eyeing Sokka like the time Sokka had to use Aang’s washing machine and dyed all of his white socks faintly pink. It had taken Sokka two days to confess to the crime, yet Aang’s mere Look eventually broke him.</p><p><em>But not this time. I’ll stay strong, </em>Sokka promises himself. <em>It’s for his own good. I’ll only tell him if it becomes a concern.</em></p><p>“Did we get some hate-mail again?” Aang asks after a stretched moment’s silence.</p><p>Sokka shrugs, aiming for blitheness. “Yeah, someone had something to say about your mouth breathing again.”</p><p>It’s precisely the thing to say, Aang’s face turns a startling and sudden shade of red, and exclaims: “What the neck!” Aang’s trying to get into the havit of saying ‘what the neck,’ as a child-friendly exclamation. “I breathe like a perfectly normal human! <em>You’re </em>the one who’s always get your spittlely mouth-germs all over the mics.”   </p><p>“Gross, dude, why do you have to say it like that?” Sokka fires back, not able to a suppress cackle. He hopes Aang doesn’t notice how his laughter’s just shy of manic.</p><p> </p><p>*let the author give you some free advice: there’s never a question on which type of gyoza to get. Get <em>all </em>the gyoza.</p>
<hr/><p>It begins because of Adam Rippon, as all good conversations ought to.</p><p>A singular television in the ramen shop hangs to the left of the counter, and currently it’s switched to NBC and a recap of a recent ice-skating competition (tournament? Contest? Melee? Zuko’s not sure what the official terminology is). On screen, Rippon swerves around the ice with the flashing silver of his skates and the distinct outline of his very tight pants. Cutting herself off from explaining why the Tantanmen ramen is her favorite (but maybe she ought to branch out and try the Szechaun Pork Miso?), Katara follows Zuko’s gaze, exclaiming, “Oh my gosh! I love ice-skating. I was totally obsessed during the 2018 Olympics.”</p><p>“Really?” Zuko says, blinking at her; of all things to bond with someone over—especially Sokka’s sister, who he desperately wanted to approve of him—he’d never have guessed it’d be Olympic ice-skating. “I recorded all the ice-skating, and I think I still have it saved on my TV.”</p><p>Katara grins, nodding. “Me too. It’s so beautiful and makes me wish I didn’t quit ice-skating back in the day.”</p><p>“You ice-skated?” Zuko asks. The teenagers in front of them finally decided on getting an order of each type of gyoza, and now have begun the laborious process of deciding which ramen they want to order.</p><p>“Yeah, before I quit to focus on swimming in, like, fifth grade. I guess I have a thing for water, frozen or liquid,” Katara replies with a shrug. They fall quit, watching Adam finish his routine, before Katara offers: “I loved the Team USA routines in the 2018 Olympics, but Canada had us whipped.”</p><p>Zuko grins. “Are you talking about the <em>Moulin Rouge </em>routine? Virtue and Reed? Because I literally couldn’t agree more.”</p><p>Katara’s enthusiasm is so encompassing, her smile pulling so wide, it’s as though every one of her muscles wants to participate. It’s an overwhelming enthusiasm, a gale force of delight powering it, and it reminds Zuko of Sokka joking about <em>Star Wars, </em>of him cracking jokes about the lives of dead people, of him delivering a punchy one-liner on <em>Cryptid: Decoded. </em>Zuko’s stomach roils, and he dares a glance back at the table, Sokka sitting alone and absorbed by this phone. “Holy shit! Yes! Exactly! You get it! I literally made Sokka and Aang rewatch their routine <em>and </em>the movie <em>Moulin Rouge </em>with me, my obsession was so deep,” Katara exclaims. “We should totally watch it together! It’d be nice to actually have a fellow appreciator; the boys like to make fun of it solely because I like it.” She rolls her eyes with fondness.</p><p>“They’re uncultured,” Zuko agrees, biting back a wry question on if she’s sure Aang doesn’t make fun because he’s actually trying his best to flirtatiously tease her? He doesn’t know her (<em>I don’t know </em>any <em>of them) </em>that well.</p><p>But Katara’s smiling like she’d like to get to know Zuko that well; like she wants them to be friends. Not just acquaintances—a friend of her brother’s, but nothing to her—but actual <em>friends. </em>Zuko’s head spins at the mere notion. Katara, ignorant to his vertigo, prattles on, “We can have a movie night! I promise it won’t be chaotic as last night; I swear I accidentally sniffed at least five armpits, it was so tight. We’ll have to invite Suki, because she’d murder me if she found out we watched <em>Moulin Rouge </em>without her.”</p><p>Apparently both Imiq siblings have the ability to monologue ad nauseum. </p><p>“Are you free this coming Friday night?”</p><p>It takes a dragging ten seconds for Zuko to process she fielded him a question. Another five for his brain to compute an answer. “Um,” he croaks, a delayed stalling tactic. He tries again: “Well, what time?”</p><p>“Hmm, seven?” Katara asks. “Usually Sokka’s done with editing the Friday episode by then and doesn’t care if I make noise. Also, we can force him to watch, too.” Her grin is downright evil at the thought.</p><p>Zuko’s mouth suddenly dries at the mention of the Friday ‘Chew and Chats,’ at being <em>in </em>Katara and Sokka’s apartment, at the reminder Katara knows he knows about <em>Cryptid: Decoded. </em>A sudden panic lodges in his thoughts, rattling bells and whirring up sirens like a tornado was about to touch down in his brain. “Um, Katara?” he asks, because he might as well know if his death warrant’s been signed. “Did you mention to him that I listen to the podcast?”</p><p>She blinks at the sudden question, the sudden somberness. The grin slides from her mouth. “No, I haven’t. It hasn’t come up since last night. Why? Does he not know you listen or something?” Zuko’s expression is answer enough. Katara’s eyes widen, a matched pair of glinting sapphires. “<em>What</em>? Why?”</p><p>Confronted with the question aloud, so bluntly, feels like being ripped apart by a cannonball at point blank range. The question tears through him, shredding all the carefully patched-together excuses he’s formulated for himself—made readily digestible—and he’s left trying to gather coiling smoke of explanation in his hands. No matter how hard he scrambles, how much he tries to string one syllable behind the other, all he can come up with is a croaky: “Uh.”</p><p>“Excuse me, ma’am? Sir?” asks the cashier, finally turning with relief away from the group of teenagers. Visible relief smooths her face to be done with them. “Are you ready to order?”</p><p>Katara steps forward, sparing Zuko a raised eyebrow—a mute expression that packs in a million words; warning she’s giving him a temporary reprieve, but still expects an answer eventually—and quickly rattles off orders for Aang and Zuko before going for the Tantanmen ramen for herself after all. When she finishes, Zuko shuffles forward to mutter out: “Make that two Tantamen ramens, please.”</p><p>The cashier finishes tapping in their order, and Katara pays. Zuko watches the familiar motions of a purchase feeling alien to him; like he’s bumped full of helium and helpless to his situation as he slowly floats away from the world and into the atmosphere. He’ll burn up—<em>or maybe that’s just a side-effect of blushing like a damn tomato.</em></p><p>When Katara receives her card back and four glasses for water, she walks slowly toward the water jug alongside the soda fountain machine, clearly meaning for Zuko to fall into step and blurt out some palpable answer. Yet, he’d come up with no excuses—none that would be satisfactory to Katara, anyway—so he settles on the truth: “I, uh. Well, I’m a huge fan, as you know, and it just felt awkward to confess. I’ve gotten to know him, and Aang, and you, and it just feels like an invasion of privacy.”</p><p>Katara starts filling each cup with ice with methodical focus, allowing silence to linger. Her mouth twists down into a frown, as if physically chewing over her words. Only when she starts filling up the glasses of water does she begin: “You know, we have friends who used to be fans. He wasn’t at the party yesterday, but Teo started as someone who ran a fanblog but then the boys met him in real life and he comes over pretty often to hang out. They’re really chill about fans, if that’s what you’re worried about. Sokka doesn’t get weird about it.”</p><p>“I know, but…” Zuko bits his lip, his thumbs beginning to twirl around each other. It’s a nervous gesture he’s caught himself doing too often; he needs to break it before it becomes a habit. “It’s just that I’ve had so many opportunities to tell them and…and I’m just not very good at making friends, or trusting people.”</p><p>Katara pauses, staring at him with something unreadable behind her eyes. She gives a brief nod. “Okay, fine. I won’t tell either of them that you listen, but we’re going to make a deal, okay?”</p><p>Knowing he’s been extended an olive branch he doesn’t deserve, Zuko responds unthinkingly: “Okay, anything.”</p><p>“I won’t tell him, but you have to before the end of April,” Katara says, handing him two full glasses to carry. She starts filling the third.</p><p>Zuko swallows back his immediate reaction: <em>a month? </em>She’s giving him a month, as if Sokka will still want to be his friend after a month? That he won’t realize Zuko had been right, he really is an unlovable, bad person, before April is out? It seems too generous, like he’s inadvertently tricked Katara into a vastly unequal trade, but he’s too selfish to correct her. He agrees, and they return to the table to find Aang and Sokka discussing the merits of yum-yum sauce.</p>
<hr/><p>Zuko’s half-frozen by the time he and Druk walk into the lobby of their apartment building. Katara offered to drop him along the way of her Uber, since the boys were taking her car, but Zuko refused once she admitted to be going north, to Edgewater, while Zuko was bound south, to Lincoln Park. He didn’t want to make her go so far out of her way. Besides, it wasn’t that far of a walk.</p><p>Only, sometimes he forgets that Chicago blocks aren’t the same as Dallas blocks.</p><p>“We’ll get you under the electric blanket and get nice and toasty,” Zuko tells Druk as they climb up to the second floor. “Maybe I’ll throw in a biscuit while I’m at it.”</p><p>Druk barks—‘biscuit’ is one of the few words that always get a reaction; the other two are ‘turtles’ and ‘ducks’—his tail wagging mechanically like a runaway metronome. Zuko smiles down at him, entirely blind to the figure longing on his doormat, her back pressed to his door.</p><p>“Still talking to your dog, I see?” a voice drawls.</p><p>Zuko’s heart plunges through his feet, burying into the ground, and starts burrowing to the center of the Earth because he knows that voice. But how could she be here? She’s supposed to be on another continent, not sprawled in the hallway of his apartment building, looking bored enough to commit murder. <em>Well, maybe she always looks like that</em>, Zuko amends.</p><p>“Azula?” he gasps. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Languidly collecting herself to her feet, with all the elegant laziness of an overgrown Persian cat, she drawls: “I’m here to find out why you’ve not been responding to Father’s calls, texts, or emails.” She ticks her fingers up as she lists. “I thought you might be dead, but clearly that’s too much to hope for.” A raised eyebrow, as if to imply it’d have been the only decent thing Zuko’s ever done: spontaneously dropping dead. “Not to be <em>too</em> hyperbolic, but Father is furious with you. Well, <em>more</em> furious than usual.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Azula and Zuko go to Denny's.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>BTS just won't quit bangin' out these bops, huh? You wouldn't know it from the general mode and content, but this chapter was brought to you by their new single "Dynamite." Its...pretty dynamite.</p>
<p>As always, my deepest thanks to my beta @cinnamoncookies for her perceptive eye.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They end up at Denny’s.</p>
<p>Azula’s lips curl faintly back at the whirring yellow light, the threadbare carpet, the perpetual stench of microwave bacon, but she doesn’t comment. But then, complaining would be moot: it’s the only place open at 11pm, especially when Azula stipulated she wanted pancakes. It tips Zuko off; if Azula isn’t roasting a restaurant for being ‘decidedly middle class’ <em>and</em> admitting to wanting ‘peasant fare’ such as pancake, then something’s very off about her (because, honestly, Azula’s been training all of her life to play a snotty princess in a Ren Faire).</p>
<p>They get through ordering without fighting, a new record for them. Of course, it’s hard to fight when neither really know what to say. Though, this isn’t to imply the Sozin siblings haven’t perfected the art of mute arguments. Azula stems her comments on the Americana décor encroaching on their little, sticky booth with a view peering onto a darkened Harlem Street, while Zuko doesn’t ask when she decided to give herself asymmetrical bangs like a suburban soccer mom.</p>
<p>The waitress shuffles away with their orders—a stack of blueberry pancakes for Azula, an ‘extra bitter’ cup of coffee to brace Zuko for whatever conversational hurricane he’s about to weather—and Azula sets aside her menu with a snap. As she digs in her pursue for wet wipes, she asks,“So, Zuzu, how’s the medical practice?”</p>
<p>It’s almost civil, her tone, and it throws Zuko for a whole twenty seconds. She patiently waits for his brain to compute the question, keeping busy with disinfecting the table, the menus, and then her hands with meticulous precision. <em>She’s so calm; she must be doing yoga again, </em>Zuko thinks before he croaks out a reply: “Well, pretty good. Besides Father trying to get my license revoked, of course.”</p>
<p>Something like amusement curls Azula’s mouth for the briefest of moments. “Well, that’s entirely your own fault, isn’t it, baby brother? If only you’d put your family before yourself and your career,” Azula sneers, except it doesn’t have its usual metallic, blood-in-the-mouth kind of edge to it. Zuko’s eyes narrow; he’d been right. Something <em>is </em>off about her.</p>
<p>His own dryness saturated by a weary curiosity, not quite willing to fire back in the typical style of their conversations (not when she’s being…<em>nice</em>? Or as nice as Azula can be), Zuko returns, “That’s the problem: I highly value not being incarcerated, so there’s that.”</p>
<p>And Zuko watches in equal measures of horror and paralyzed fascination as Azula’s mouth stretches—quirking up lightning-fast, as though a muscle spasmed across her face—and was that <em>a smile? </em>A rueful smile, certainly, but Zuko had never seen her smile as anything but cruel. This had a sort of weight to it: the sad smile of Atlas being slowly crushed by a thousand burdens and a thousand worries.</p>
<p>“At least we could all have neighboring cells; I’m sure Father’s lawyers can arrange that,” Azula replies. “It’d be the closet our family has ever been.”</p>
<p>Zuko’s not sure how to reply to that.</p>
<p>He’s never heard Azula say anything critical of Ozai, not even when he ripped her away from her Dallas middle school and sent her out East; not when the unspoken reason was that she had too many friends and not enough <em>underlings </em>(of course, Ozai never used that kind of dirty jargon, but the implication lived in his sneers, his narrowed eyes, when Azula’s twelfth birthday party had been filled with girls who had accountants or lawyers for parents: no one of substance; no one with connections). She didn’t criticize him when he ordered her to drop her first and only girlfriend and play straight throughout her undergraduate study at Oxford, even going out with boys Ozai selected. Though Zuko never heard directly from Azula, rather through Lu Ten who had a number of British contacts, Azula’s first boyfriend, Chan, came from a wealthy shipping family but also had a perchance for hitting when he was a few drinks in. And he drank like a fish. Then, Azula’s other boyfriend, Ruon-Jian, son of some minor noble, slept around while dating her, like he was determined to give STDs to everyone in their Oxford <em>and </em>Cambridge graduating class. By all accounts, he’d been successful.</p>
<p>And Zuko never understood those stories; he couldn’t believe his sister—the woman with a smile sharper than a lioness’ fangs and a fire scorching and blackening her insides—would tolerate such pathetic men. But now, he looks at her sitting across from him, and he wonders if it’s the first time he’s truly <em>seen </em>her.</p>
<p>Seen the sardonic coil of her mouth, twisting up and to the side. Seen how a weight rests behind her eyes, like each blink is a Herculean effort to keep her eyelids open—to stay awake, and ambitious, and angry with the world. In an instant, Zuko understands what Azula took two years to understand. She’d come to the realization slowly, the days of working as Ozai’s lawyer-attack dog chipping away at her icy veneer, until she was left staring at an ugly truth she always knew lurked below the surface: she tolerated dating those pathetic men because she was raised by a pathetic man.</p>
<p>The silence stretches until Zuko’s coffee and Azula’s water is deposited on their table, the waitress scuttling away without giving either of them the chance to request anything. Zuko wishes he could run off and evade whatever weird sibling-reckoning he teetered on the precipice of.</p>
<p>Surprisingly, Azula’s the one to break the silence: “How’s Ty Lee?”</p>
<p>Zuko nearly chokes on his breath. “Huh?”</p>
<p>“You heard me,” she returns flatly.</p>
<p>“I think she’s good,” Zuko returns, taking a careful sip of coffee. A coil of steam rising off the amber surface, tickling his nose. As innocuously as he could, he asks, “Why the interest?”</p>
<p>Azula stiffens, and he can <em>hear </em>the evasion tactic: “Can’t I just inquire about the people in my brother’s life? I’m trying to be a good sister, and it’d be easier if you weren’t so suspicious of me over everything.”</p>
<p>Zuko hides a grin behind another pulling of coffee. <em>Well, whatever change she’s gone through, she’s still a bitch, </em>Zuko thinks, fondly. He replies, “Of course you can “inquire”—he doesn’t dare do air quotes, valuing his fingers to risk tempting Azula to chopping them off— “but it’s just interesting you’re asking about Ty Lee, is all. I mean, you could ask about Dr. Hao  or Toph.”</p>
<p>Admittedly, it’d been a sad party to celebrate Zuko’s end-of-residency, hosted at the Jasmine Dragon on Uncle’s insistence. It was purely coincidental Azula was in Chicago for a work conference that led her to be invited, and to meet Dr. Hao, Toph, and Ty Lee. Zuko had been mildly shocked to see his new, bubbly receptionist hit it off with his surly sister, but he lost track of them after Uncle bust out the pai sho board and Toph kicked everyone’s ass (she still maintains Badger didn’t help her cheat, but Zuko suspects her of stashing game tiles in Badger’s vest).        </p>
<p>“Well how is Dr. Hao and Toph?” Azula says, though Zuko has the distinct impression she doesn’t actually remember who Dr. Hao or Toph are.</p>
<p>“Good, thanks for asking,” Zuko returns, barely repressing his shit-eating grin. Azula nods stiffly, too stubborn to reiterate her inquiry about Ty Lee, and Zuko relents. “And Ty Lee’s good, too. She broke up with her girlfriend about two weeks ago. She’s single, if you’re wondering.” Zuko had listened to her hash out the entire Odyssean debacle of hurt feelings, emotional cheating, and locking the girlfriend out over lunches, <em>plural</em>. A full <em>week</em> of lunches.  </p>
<p>“Why would I be wondering that?” Azula fires back, a little too quickly and too defensively.</p>
<p>Zuko shrugs. “No reason, just sharing.”</p>
<p> Another silence. The pancakes finally arrive.</p>
<p>Unfolding her napkin and arranging her silverware on her paper placemat, Azula primly cuts into her pancakes. It’s perhaps the finest display of etiquette ever seen in a Denny’s. “Have you heard from anyone in the family recently?”</p>
<p>Zuko frowns down at his coffee. Like the Ty Lee question, her casualness is too refined, too studied and its dullness has a countereffect: it sharpens the edge. But Zuko’s never been good at guessing Azula’s endgame, never equipped with the rules of gameplay, and he decides to trust that whatever change that’s evolved her heart, it couldn’t have possibly grown more hate in her heart for him. Firstly, he doubts that’s humanly possible. Second, she hasn’t threatened to stab him. So, he replies honestly, not disguising his curiosity, “I see Uncle three times a week and I text cousin Lu Ten. Why?”</p>
<p>Waiting to swallow her bite of pancakes, she prods, “But nothing from Mother?”</p>
<p>Zuko shakes his head. “No, why? Is she okay?” Though Zuko had been close to his mother throughout his early childhood, their relationship frayed when she got checked into her first rehab. It’s taken years and medical training to slowly make sense of his mother’s symptoms, but she’d been abusing her prescriptions. Zuko always suspected she drugged herself to numb her reality: her husband’s cruelty, the coldness of her life, the bloodlust of her family. Still, despite Zuko’s realization, she still seems inaccessible to him, hopping around family homes in exotic locales with her live-in caretakers, curtained off from the world by Ozai.</p>
<p>Azula sets aside her fork and knife. Looking squarely in Zuko’s face, she replies, “Yeah, I think she is, and that’s the problem. I think it’s the first time she’s been okay in her life.” Eyebrows marching together, Zuko asks what she means, but Azula only shakes her head and replies, “You know I was never her favorite child—she never liked me, so she doesn’t tell me anything. But if her precious Zuzu called, she might tell you what’s she’s up to. Because she’s definitely up to something.”</p>
<p>It’s then that it occurs to Zuko that perhaps <em>this </em>is the real reason Azula came to Chicago; that she played off Ozai’s rage and used the role as his messenger to discuss her true intentions. Azula always played her games, but Zuko wonders if—perhaps—they’re on the same team for once.</p>
<hr/>
<p>They catch the last L-train from Oak Park back toward Zuko’s apartment in Lincoln Park, and the quiet settling between them is comfortable. The clack-clack of the train car over the track offers a steady rhythm, the whirring yellow light a sort of ethereal, sepia filter to the nighttime city, and Zuko realizes this is the first time he’s ever fully relaxed around his sister. Even though they spent their childhoods under the same roof and she always crashes in his guest bedroom when visiting Chicago, tonight is the first real conversation they’ve had; tonight is the first time they’ve understood (or began to understand) each other.</p>
<p>As they’re descending the train stop platform, necks retracted into their coats like turtles hiding in their shells from the cold, Azula says as if they’d only just paused a conversation: “Father is furious with you.”</p>
<p>Zuko nods. “I know.” It’s a truth he’s been dodging through silenced texts, unopened emails, and ignored phone calls. Up until that moment, he avoided the inevitable by doing the only thing he knew: by running away. He ran away to Chicago, and he should have known it’d only be a matter of time before Ozai came for him. He’d been foolish to think he could go nine-years without retribution, that his most severe punishment would simply be being ordered back to Dallas in September. Now that Ozai has turned his gaze on Zuko, he couldn’t run anymore.</p>
<p>“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Azula asks, so plaintively it strips away every potential caustic outcome—every bit of moral acrobatics Zuko’s pulverized his mind with during hours spent on Uncle’s couch in the depths of indecision—rendering the dilemma no more consequential than ordering from Taco Bell. Sure, there might be some gnarly bowel movements later, but Zuko would live through it if he ordered the chalupa supreme <em>and </em>cinnamon twists.</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Zuko asks, stalling for time. He glances at her expectant eyebrows, her purses mouth. “Well…” He draws out the word to new lengths, adding whole syllables and definitions. They go nearly a block before he continues: “Well, I…I owe Father. I know that. He paid for my education and med school. He got me in contact with Dr. Hao and Dr. Jee. I kind of owe him everything.”</p>
<p>Azula’s quiet. When Zuko eyes her from the corner of his eye, he’s surprised to see she’s chewing on her lower lip. He wisely doesn’t comment on it.</p>
<p>“Alright, so Father threw around his money. But who did you live with during all that?”</p>
<p>“Uh, Uncle?” Zuko replies, wondering where she’s going with this.</p>
<p>“And who stayed up with to help you study, and who convinced you not to drop out of UChicago, and to pursue orthopedics?” Azula presses on.</p>
<p>“Wait, how did you know I almost dropped out?”</p>
<p>“Irrelevant. Answer the question, who was it?”</p>
<p>“Well, it was, uh, Uncle.”</p>
<p>“Exactly,” Azula returns. “Dad threw his money around, but he might as well just be loaner who’s now trying to collect with interest from you. Ozai isn’t your father.”</p>
<p>A long pause, Zuko trying to mentally catalogue Azula’s words and all its implications. How Azula’s reached, entirely independent of Zuko’s own self-discovery, the same conclusion as him: Ozai isn’t their father, but their overlord. Perhaps, someday, when they’re both drunk (and they’d have to be drunk for this conversation) she’ll tell him what changed her mind. For now, though, all he can come up with is: “Um, okay?”</p>
<p>She rolls her eyes. “<em>So</em>, what does Uncle think you should do?”</p>
<p>“He thinks I shouldn’t do it. It’s morally wrong, and he’s right. I know he’s right…it’s just…” Zuko nibbles his lip, apparently a family trait.</p>
<p>“Then that’s obviously what you should do,” Azula concludes. “You said you owe <em>father, </em>and Uncle’s far more your father than Ozai ever was.” Zuko recoils as if slapped, stopping dead in his tracks to stare at her. Azula goes a few paces before realizing Zuko isn’t at her side. She turns back at him. Planting a hand on her hip, she snaps, “What? What are you staring about?”</p>
<p>“I…I, uh,” Zuko croaks. Clearing his throat, he tries again, “I just…I’m kind of stunned how easy you make—<em>made?—</em>this.”</p>
<p>Azula shrugs, though Zuko knows she knows it isn’t a shrugging matter. “I know you, Zuzu, whether either of us like it or not. I knew that you’ve been wrapped up in yourself and your problems with Ozai. I knew if I put it into perspective with Uncle, you’d get it through your thick skull.” Tilting her chin, another smile (two in one night!; the Sozin siblings really are setting records) pulling at her mouth, she says with a forceful kind of warmth: “You really are a dumb-dumb, huh?”</p>
<hr/>
<p>[Text conversations retrieved from Zuko Sozin’s phone]</p>
<p>8:45 AM Sunday, March 29<sup>th</sup></p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Hey Mom! I tried calling a few times, but I guess you’re busy. Call back when you can, I wanted to catch up and see how you’re doing. Love you!</p>
<p>11:25 AM</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Hey Mom! Tried calling again. Call when you can! I have my ringer on :)</p>
<p>2:01 PM</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Hey Lo! This is Zuko, Ursa’s son. I was wondering if you could help me get ahold of her?</p>
<p><strong>Lo: </strong>Hello, Zuko. I’m not on nursing duty for her this week, but let me give you my sister’s number. She should be at the house with your mother [contact information attached]</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Thank you so much!! Also, thanks so much for taking such good care of her. I really appreciate it.</p>
<p>2:03 PM</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Hello Li, this is Zuko, Ursa’s son. I got your contact info from your sister, who said you were looking after my mom today? I’m trying to get ahold of her, but she’s not answering any calls or replying to texts. Any ideas?</p>
<p><strong>Li: </strong>Hello Zuko. Good to hear from you! To be honest, I thought it’d be sooner.</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Why is that?</p>
<p><strong>Li: </strong>Well, your mother disappeared three nights ago.</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>She what.</p>
<p><strong>Li: </strong>You didn’t know?</p>
<p><strong>Li: </strong>I believe she got up in the middle of the night and walked out as I was sleeping. Nothing’s missing. It looks like she literally walked out.</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Why haven’t I heard about this??</p>
<p><strong>Li: </strong>I reached out to your father. He led me to believe he’d inform the family.</p>
<p><strong>Li: </strong>I’m sorry you’re just now hearing about this. I should have contacted everyone sooner…</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>No, that’s okay. You did the right thing. How could you have known my father would try to keep Mother’s disappearance secret from the entire family?</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>How would you know my family is dysfunctional?</p>
<hr/>
<p>After getting the news from Li, Zuko dials up Uncle with the intention of canceling their weekly Sunday ‘linner.’* Yet, Uncle would hear nothing of it, even when panic edged in Zuko’s voice, and insisted he bring Azula and Druk along. He’d already made Hollandaise sauce and claimed he’d finally perfected the art of poached eggs. And it’s no one’s business but Zuko’s that when he ends the call, he has to breath past the sudden lump in his throat.</p>
<p>(Because Uncle remembered Eggs Benedict is one of Zuko’s favorite foods, even though he only mentioned it in passing months ago).</p>
<p>As Zuko and Azula trundle out of the apartment, he summarizes the news from Li before asking: “Is this what you were talking about last night? When you said Mom’s okay, because literally disappearing isn’t what normal people would call ‘okay.’”</p>
<p>They pause, waiting for Druk to sniff at a tree, trying to decide if he wants to pee on it. Azula pretends great interest in watching him nose around the roots pushing through the cement of the sidewalk. Noticing her stare, Druk trots to her side, bouncing up to nose her hand and beg for pets. Unexplainedly, Druk has always liked Azula. But then, there’s no account for taste.</p>
<p>She squats to scratch behind his ears, Druk leaning into her hands and tongue lulling out. Quietly, more like she confessed to Druk than Zuko, she admits, “No, I had no idea she disappeared. I’m not surprised, though, about any of it. That Father kept it from us or that Ursa was willing to just…walk out.”</p>
<p> Zuko frowns over her diction: it hardly seemed fair to excuse Ursa of walking out when Azula never really let her in to begin with. Still, he stays mute, waiting for her to continue. Eventually, she does. Straightening, brushing the fur from her hands and thick wool tights, Azula adds: “But I knew something was going to happen soon. Mother finally got off her meds.”</p>
<p>“But doesn’t that mean she’d be the <em>opposite </em>of okay?” Zuko demands as they set off again.</p>
<p> Azula casts him a dark look; a look he would have bristled at a point not too long ago. It conveyed her derision of his willful blindness, but now Zuko can also identify the currents of resentment directed at some other, far-flung target. He didn’t need three guesses to know it was aimed for Ozai in Texas. “Not if she never really needed the meds in the first place.”</p>
<p>“What?” Zuko asks, but Azula won’t answer his questions, no matter how he wheedles.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*for all you obviously uncultured folks out there, linner= lunch + dinner. Yes, the author <em>can </em>do math. Contain your surprise.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Linner would’ve been a study in unresolved family tension, stifling the very air in Zuko’s lungs, were it not for the superb Eggs Benedict. Uncle had certainly perfected the craft.</p>
<p>“You should add breakfast food to the menu,” Zuko suggests, breaking a two-minute silence following Uncle’s attempts at asking Azula about her life, if she had any hobbies or interests. Zuko cringed his way through it: Uncle should know by now Ozai discouraged hobbies, considering them a frivolous waste of time, leaving Azula with only work and a regimental exercise routine that might as well have been work.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m not sure,” Uncle replies, all pink-cheeked modesty. He smiles, always delighted when someone compliments his cooking. “I don’t think it’s <em>really </em>that good.”</p>
<p>“It is good, and you should just say it,” Azula cuts in, stiffly. Zuko eyes her. “It’s so tiresome when people try to sell themselves short with false modesty. Just own up to it if you’re good at something.”</p>
<p>Zuko stares at her steadily reddening face, absorbing how her sentences halt uncharacteristically, and his eyes slide to Uncle. Their eyebrows raise at each other, twin thoughts broadcasted at one another: <em>is Azula…giving a compliment? </em>An underhanded compliment, but still a compliment given in her own, strange Azula-way. Somehow, despite its biting edge, her intention seems all the more genuine because of it.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Uncle begins slowly, like he tiptoed, “I’ll proclaim myself the best maker of Eggs Benedict the world’s ever seen.”</p>
<p>Azula nods jerkily. “Good.”</p>
<p>Zuko can’t help his eyes from darting to Uncle again. A smile curls beneath his mustache. Both hurriedly look away, the threat of laughter looming too imminent. Deciding to take the burden of conversation onto himself, Zuko asks, “Uncle, I meant to ask. Have you heard anything from our mother recently?”</p>
<p>Uncle’s caterpillar eyebrows inch together. “No, I haven’t. I don’t think I’ve seen or heard from her since Thanksgiving three years ago.”</p>
<p>At the mention, Azula and Zuko can’t contain their shudders. Though the Sozin family gatherings were never exactly merry, that particular Thanksgiving had ended with Ozai throwing the pumpkin pie at Uncle’s head and Uncle retaliating with mashed potatoes, their yelling escalating to deafening volumes. The neighbors called the police. It’d been the last time the entire family—Ozai, Ursa, Zuko, Azula, Uncle, and Lu Ten—had been all within one hundred miles of each other.</p>
<p>“Why?” Uncle prompts.</p>
<p>“Oh well.” Zuko’s eyes meet Azula’s across the table. She shrugs, as if to say she doesn’t particularly care if he tells Uncle. “Well, I was trying to get ahold of her, and she wasn’t answering her phone. So, I reached out to her live-in nurse, and she told me that Mom’s been missing for a few days. Like, she disappeared.”</p>
<p>“Disappeared?” Uncle repeats.</p>
<p>“And Azula says she’s been off her meds for a while,” Zuko tacks on. “Do you know anything?”</p>
<p>Uncle shakes his head, gently stroking at his beard, his eyes fixed on some far-off point. After a drawn moment of thought, he says, “No, I’m sorry, I don’t, but this is serious. Very serious indeed. I’ll contact my son and see if he knows anything.” Lu Ten is the family lawyer; if anyone found themselves in legal trouble—the kind of trouble disappearing might cause—he’d know.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Uncle.” Zuko reaches across the table, briefly squeezing his Uncle’s fingers before withdrawing his hand. He’d been consciously working on expressing his gratitude—especially to Uncle, who did so much for him.</p>
<p>Something unreadable settles across Azula’s face watching the exchange, and she abruptly stands. “I need to go to the bathroom,” Azula announces, giving neither of them time to respond, marching off resolutely.</p>
<p>Uncle and Zuko watch her go, waiting until they hear the click of the bathroom door closing to speak. “She’s changed,” Uncle observes simply.</p>
<p>“I know, and I’m not really sure what’s happened.” Zuko nibbles his lip, before admitting: “And I’m kind of afraid to ask.”</p>
<p>“Understandable.” Uncle shoots him a mischievous grin before sipping at his afternoon cup of tea. With all the casualness of commenting on the weather, he asks, “So, when were you going to tell me you made friends with that podcaster you’re obsessed with?”</p>
<p>Zuko splutters. “What? How did you know about that?”</p>
<p>Uncle’s smile is downright coy. “I have eyes and ears everywhere. Especially when it comes to looking out for my favorite nephew.”</p>
<p>Zuko scowls. “No, really.”</p>
<p>Uncle laughs. “Your friend, Toph, told me. She came to the café yesterday and told me all about the party. She gave a description of Sokka, and I put the puzzle together between him being a regular and you talking about that podcast he runs.”</p>
<p>"Wait, <em>you </em>knew about Sokka being a regular <em>and </em>his podcast and never thought to tell me?” Zuko splutters. He could have known Sokka <em>months, </em>maybe even <em>years, </em>earlier if Uncle had just been a better wingman. But then, would he have wanted that? Would he have wanted to be introduced to Sokka as a rabid fan, and not an individual with professional ambitions and independent love of Sokka’s same interests? Katara did say he was cool about meeting fans, but Zuko wants to be more than a former-fan-friend. <em>Maybe it worked out for the best? </em>  </p>
<p>Uncle gives him a piercing, knowing look. “And you would have introduced yourself to him if I did tell you?”</p>
<p> Zuko ducks his head, using his forking to trail through the dribbles of Hollandaise sauce still on his plate. “No,” he admits in a mumble.</p>
<p>“That’s what I thought. Now, how was the party?” Let it never be said that Uncle isn’t dogged in his resolve to hound out information from Zuko.</p>
<p>“It was…” Zuko’s mind flashes to the conversations in the kitchen, on the balcony, then in the cemetery yesterday. He feels heat rising in his cheeks. “It was really good.”</p>
<p>Uncle eyes Zuko’s reddening face but mercifully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he hums in that self-satisfied way.</p>
<p>Azula returns then, noticeably paler than when she left. “Um,” she begins, uncharacteristically tongue-tied, and Zuko never would’ve thought it possible if he didn’t witness if happening because Azula’s <em>twiddling her thumbs</em>. He didn’t know she had the capacity for nervousness. “Um, Uncle Iroh, where did you get that painting in the hallway?”</p>
<p>Zuko frowns: he knows which painting she’s referring; he walks past it every time he enters the apartment. It’s a splatter of reds, oranges, and blacks; a forest of blocks just on the cusp of resolving into humanoid shapes if a viewer were to stare at it long enough. But, Zuko avoids staring. There’s an anger in the colors, like the artist only had the canvas to pulverize, and it was uncomfortable reflection of Zuko’s own anger.</p>
<p>Uncle Iroh’s mouth blooms into a smile. “Ah, yes, it took some time to track it down, but it was important to me to display some of your art. I have a few in the café downstairs too, if you want to see them.”</p>
<p>Zuko’s eyes round into coins. “Uh?” he croaks. “You <em>paint?” </em>His mind feels like it’s an ancient Dell computer, scrambling to install a program that’s twenty years too advanced. “Does Father know?” <em>What about not having hobbies? </em>Zuko wants to ask.</p>
<p>Azula curls her lips back in a sneer. “Of course he doesn’t know; I don’t want all my canvases torched and my supplies thrown in the trash.” She pauses. To Uncle, she adds, “That one in your hallway, <em>Cinders, </em>is my favorite. You have good taste.” She says it begrudgingly, almost like it pained her to admit.</p>
<p>“You’re a good artist,” Uncle returns.</p>
<p>But Zuko’s still brimming with questions, questions he can’t shore up. “But when did you start painting? And how did Uncle know about it and I didn’t?” he blurts.</p>
<p>"You never bothered to ask, Zuzu,” Azula snips back. She takes a sip of her tea, gone tepid, before sighing. “Actually, no one in the family was supposed to know. I started painting at Oxford. My ex encouraged me to do it as a form of therapy, because going to an actual therapist was out of the question. Sozins are not mentally weak.” Zuko nods; he had to use a secret bank account for his therapy throughout med school for fear of Ozai finding out. “But I started selling my paintings during law school. I don’t use my real name, so how did you know?” This is directed to Uncle.</p>
<p>He gives her the same mischievous smile he used on Zuko. “I have my ways.” Pause. “And an artist named ‘Lapis’ who was a law student at Yale with an affinity for phoenixes and red color palettes seemed a little too coincidental to not look into.”</p>
<p>And if Azula could laugh, she would have. As it is, she allowed herself a flashing smile, which is the equivalent of laughter for her.</p>
<hr/>
<p>[Text conversation retrieved from Sokka Imiq’s phone]</p>
<p>7:30 PM Sunday, March 29<sup>th</sup></p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Hey :) how was your day? Feels weird not to talk after hanging for two days in a row</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Yeah, seems like it should be a part of our daily routine now</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Fs!</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>How was your day?</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Nuh-uh, I asked first. You got to answer</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Oh haha, okay</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>It was alright? My sister literally showed up on my doorstep last night and things are always tense around her</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I’m sorry :( what’s the deal with her? Why don’t we like her?</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>‘We?’</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Yeah, ‘we’! It’s a show of solidarity for my good buddy, Zuko, okay? Just go with it</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Lol, okay</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Soo?? What’s the deal?</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>And, srsly, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. You can tell me to back off</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>No, it’s cool. It’s just kind of hard to explain? We had a weird childhood and never really got along. To be honest, I haven’t seen her much since she went to boarding school for high school and I moved to Chicago for undergrad. I mean, she always stays with me when she’s in town, but this time she seems…different?</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Bad different or good different?</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>I don’t know; different-different, I guess. Like, we had a civil conversation when we went to Denny’s and she didn’t even freak out when she found out Uncle displays her paintings in his café</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Which is crazy, because I didn’t even know she painted??</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Wait, wait, that’s a lot</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>First, your sister’s an artist? That’s pretty dope. Second, you guys went…to Denny’s. Third, I’m sorry that it’s actually remarkable that she was civil because that says a lot about how your relationship is with her normally. Like, I couldn’t imagine Katara and I not having a good relationship</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Because for all that siblings can suck, they’re also obligated to be your friends and sometimes that’s so, so crucial. I’m sorry you and your sister don’t have that</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Thanks, that means a lot to me that you’d say that.</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Yeah, she’s an artist. It’s crazy, but I guess she started painting as a form of therapy, which is maybe a part of why she’s different? I don’t know. And yeah, Denny’s. But in my defense, it was the only place open!!</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Listen, no judgement. Denny’s milkshakes are really good. You might even say they bring all the boys to the yard</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Boo</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Don’t boo me, I’m right</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Wait, did you say your Uncle has a café? That’s so cool!! We should go sometime! What’s it called?</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Actually, it’s the Jasmine Dragon</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>WAIT HOLD UP</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>yes?</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>YOUR UNCLE IS UNCLE IROH???? THE KING OF COFFEES AND TEAS? THE PATRON SAINT OF CAFFEINE AND UNWANTED ADVICE?</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Lol, good to know that he gives advice to everyone, not just me</p>
<p><strong>Sokka</strong>: Bro, So. Much. Advice. Don’t get me wrong, he’s usually right about things and usually he waits until I’m on my second cup of coffee before he dishes out some wisdom. Which I appreciate lol</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Yeah, he’s very thoughtful that way</p>
<p><strong>Sokka</strong>: But sorry, I totally derailed you from talking about your sister. Is there anything I can do to help?? Do you need a mediator? Because I’m a great buffer</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>‘Buffer’ is my middle name</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Pretty sure it isn’t</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>But, that’s okay! I really appreciate the offer. Texting you like this actually helps a lot. And she’s not too much to handle or whatever?? It’s just a weird situation. And there’s some family drama coming up all of a sudden. It’s all just really strange and stressful</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I’m sorry. You know I’m here for you, right? Like, for anything. If you need to talk or just to hang out and not think about everything, I got you.</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Thank you. You’re the best</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I know ;)</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sokka rubs at his bloodshot eyes, hoping the Zoom camera won’t pick up on the redness rimming his irises. It wouldn’t exactly he a good first impression if Ms. Taqqiq thought he was high.</p>
<p>He’d stayed up late texting Zuko about nothing in particular; after the conversation about his sister and allusions to family drama—allusions he desperately wanted to follow up with, but also knowing he had to respect Zuko’s boundaries—the topic drifted into a debate on if Mothman or Goatman would win in a mud-wrestling contest. Sokka snort-laughed an embarrassing amount, reading Zuko’s very serious analysis and argumentation about Goatman’s superior physique (‘he has horns, you know’) until Katara creaked open his bedroom door and snapped at him to go the fuck to sleep already.</p>
<p>Sokka glanced at his digital clock—it read ‘3:17 AM’—and apologized, chagrinned.</p>
<p>Now, camped out at the kitchen counter, wearing an actual button-down for the interview, tiredness drags at his muscles, his eyelids, but he doesn’t regret staying up to text Zuko. He had a growing sense that time spent with Zuko was never wasted time.</p>
<p>Taking a sip of coffee, reveling in the bitterness on his tongue, Sokka skims through his interview notes again. He had jotted down talking points about <em>Ember. </em>features he wanted to gush over, or make suggestions for improvement, while a niggling voice at the back of his mind accused him of betraying Aang and Katara, <em>maybe even Zuko? </em>But he quieted the voice with assurances he isn’t <em>actually </em>taking the job; doing interviews is simply good practice. Good for keeping him sharp, his professional skills polished. He was just fishing to see what he’d catch, with the intention of throwing it back into the water.</p>
<p><em>Not a great metaphor, </em>Sokka thinks as an email pops into his inbox. He had emailed back Ms. Yue Taqqiq requesting they switch to his personal email for fear of a snooping Aang following up on his curiosity, and Sokka clicks hurriedly at the Zoom invite. Perhaps <em>too </em>hurriedly, not giving enough time to settle his rat-a-tat heartbeat or his quick breath, high in his throat.</p>
<p>The Zoom window winks open on his computer monitor, displaying the smiling face of a pretty woman with dyed-white hair. The fuzziness of the camera quality does little to diminish her beauty, though Sokka finds himself thinking: <em>Zuko’s got her beat, though. </em>He flushes at the thought, squirreling it aside before he can linger on it. “Hello Mr. Imiq! Thanks so much for talking with me today!”</p>
<p>“Please, call me Sokka. And, thank <em>you</em> for reaching out. I’ve been a fan of <em>Ember. </em>for a while, and it’s such an honor just to be considered to work with you guys,” Sokka returns, a smile immediately pulling and fixing onto his face.</p>
<p>“Of course. We’ve been impressed with how you’ve grown your podcast platform, and we’re intrigued with how you might help us grow our company,” Ms. Taqqiq replies. “So, do you mind if I dive into the questions? But feel free to interrupt, because I want this to be an equal exchange: this is just as much about what you can do for this job, as what we can do for you.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, okay,” Sokka agrees, his mind darting to the connections <em>Ember. </em>offers, the equipment, the opportunities.</p>
<p>“Cool, so can you tell me about the early days of <em>Cryptid: Decoded? </em>How did you get ahold of equipment and then grow your audience as you began recording podcasts?”</p>
<p>“Well, I got our first set-up from the UIC recording studios. They got new equipment, and we got the old stuff for free,” Sokka replies, unable to smother a little, fond smile at the memory of huddling in his dad’s basement on breaks from undergrad with Aang, recording the first episodes of <em>Cryptid: Decoded. </em>“Once Aang moved to Chicago, and we saw each other regularly, we were able to produce more consistent content. It was kind of all luck, because our podcast was picked up by Tumblr, and they ran with it, though it took a lot of self-advertising to get on the radar.”</p>
<p>Inexplicably, a bubble of emotion floats up from Sokka’s chest, clogging and tightening his throat, and he blinks rapidly to force down the urge to tear-up. Those were the worst of days: working forty-hours for an advertising firm, using every hour of free time to research new content for the next episode, and running on caffeine and pure willpower alone. Aang had been interning, with barely two pennies to rub together, and Katara had been working for a private school that paid for shit. They were together on a rollercoaster of uncertainty, each with ambitions they doggedly refused to let go of, and the work paid off. Aang got his therapist license, Katara a better job, and Sokka spun the podcast into enough of a success to quit his day job.</p>
<p><em>Am I willing to let all of that go? </em>Sokka wonders. Would he be betraying everything they worked for, the little life they carved out of a bustling, insensitive city?</p>
<p>He nearly misses Ms. Taqqiq’s next question. “And what did that self-advertising look like?”</p>
<p>“Well, spending a lot of time babying different social media accounts, for one,” Sokka replies, swallowing down his emotions and plastering on his smile. Katara called it his ‘car salesman smile:’ capable of selling shit, no matter how stinky. And from Ms. Taqqiq’s enthralled expression, leaning toward the camera and smiling, she’s buying. “And doing a lot of promotions for places we featured on the podcast. We were careful to be very upfront about our advertisements, because we didn’t want our listeners to feel like we weren’t real or we were just trying to push things on them. I think the companies we endorsed also appreciated that about us, too.”</p>
<p>“It’s interesting you mention that, actually. When I was talking with my team, your honesty was something that kept coming up when we were talking about things we really admired about you and your content,” Ms. Taqqiq agrees.</p>
<p>And why does a compliment Sokka knows is engineered to balloon him feel like a knife stabbing into his gut? Why does his alleged honesty feel like it’s being twisted to something unrecognizable; twisting <em>him </em>into some he doesn’t know?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Things go wrong, until they go very right.</p><p>But, good things don't ever seem to last for long in Zuko Sozin.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My deepest thanks to @cinnamoncookies for how quickly she got this up to working order! I'm really excited we've gotten to this plot point and even more excited to share with y'all. Hope you enjoy :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Uncle Iroh has a phrase Zuko suspects he stole from a Hallmark greeting card, but nonetheless employed quite often: ‘Do one thing every day that scares you.’</p><p>Typically, Zuko qualifies getting out of bed as fulfilling his quota of daily scary things, but he now holds Uncle’s words in his head—chanting them like it might brainwash his fear away—as he powerwalks up the street from his clinic and towards the great 70s-cement monstrosity housing Dr. Jee’s lab.</p><p>In an unthinkable turn of events, it seems Azula’s pep talk had been the final caustic push needed to set Zuko on the path to signing (or not) the lordilone for FDA approval.</p><p>Compounded with Uncle Iroh’s abstract advice, Sokka’s unflagging support (Zuko’s sure Sokka’s text reading, ‘if you need to talk or just hang out and not think about anything, I got you’ has been tattooed on his heart forever) and Azula’s encouragement, this external belief had had amounted enough for Zuko to begin internalizing it into something like self-confidence. And it’s all so strange: Azula giving <em>pep talks, </em>being <em>nice…</em>or nice-ish<em>. </em>Zuko’s survival instincts, honed after seventeen years in the Sozin household, sing with wariness, flashing warnings that Azula isn’t to be trusted—<em>Azula always lies, Azula always lies. </em>Yet, Zuko also knows Azula operates like a Navy Seal: with specific objectives and targets to take out. No matter how he wracks his brain, he can’t comprehend how confiding in him about her worry for Ursa or her double-life as an artist could be a ploy in some greater scheme.</p><p><em>She could be trying to buy my sympathy, </em>Zuko thinks, his pace slowing to a shuffle. Another pedestrian, following along behind him on the sidewalk, dodges around and throws a string of curses at Zuko. Yet, Zuko is deaf to it, too busy scowling down at the cement underfoot. It’d be a new strategy for Azula, certainly. More pertinently, it would require her to have developed a nuanced understanding of empathy and therefore how to twist it.</p><p><em>Which is frankly impossible, </em>Zuko decides, setting off again. Azula might have shown more concern for him and their mother than she ever has in her twenty-six-years <em>combined, </em>but it doesn’t equate to her suddenly becoming an emotional manipulator. Manipulation through explicit fear, insults, and teasing is more her style; psychological warfare is a coward’s weapon. Or so Zuko can clearly imagine her saying.</p><p>Entirely trusting Azula is unquestionable—the equivalent of signing his death warrant—but creating opportunities to <em>earn </em>his trust? <em>Well</em>.</p><p>Zuko’s mind flashes to Sokka’s text, how he stressed the importance of sibling-relationships, and an ache lances through his stomach, his chest. Zuko wants that for himself and Azula. He could never expect to achieve Sokka and Katara’s level of trust, and he’s not foolish enough to hope for it; not with all the long-buried resentment and the family drama that has been trying to poison them against each other. Yet, he also won’t shut off Azula, tentatively leaving his heart open for her to earn a modicum of his trust.</p><p>Somehow, the mere possibility of it is more than Zuko could have ever dreamed of. Images of him and Azula going to Navy Pier and playing rigged arcade games; to Yolk and eating heaping stacks of pancakes; to the Bean and taking obligatory selfies swim through his head. <em>And isn’t it sad that my daydreams are a normal person’s lived reality? </em>he thinks.</p><p>Zuko arrives at Dr. Jee’s lab, passing through the linoleum-lined hobby, waving his I.D. card below a scanner to unlock a pair of heavy metal doors. Wrenching at the handle, he slips inside the laboratory. The staggering stench of chemical cleaners and sterilized air slams into Zuko’s nose, and he suppresses a habitual shudder. Zuko never really wanted to be a researcher, preferring the daily human impact he made through being a clinician, but Ozai insisted. Insisted to the point where Zuko can’t enter a lab without feeling like his father’s phantom had chased him in.</p><p>Dr. Jee is hunched over the center workbench, wading through a stack of papers, and he spares no glance for Zuko’s arrival. “Dr. Sozin,” he greets.</p><p>“Dr. Jee,” Zuko returns, his nod stiff. Taking a steadying breath, Zuko doesn’t allow his feet to waver as he marches to round the workbench and stand opposite of Dr. Jee. If he lets his resolve flag for an instance, he fears he’ll never gather it back. It’d take another week of waffling, of advice and bolstering from Azula and Uncle, of cutesy texts from Sokka for him to be brave again. Not that he’d mind more texts from Sokka.</p><p>With an increasingly cotton-dry mouth, Zuko begins, “I’m sorry for disappearing on you for the past week, Dr. Jee, but I’ve been confronting a, uh, moral dilemma. You see, there’s no way around it: my father asked me to sign off on the lordilone for FDA approval. He wants us to falsify the results and get it through the FDA.”</p><p>Air catches in Zuko’s throat. Squashing his eyes shut, he imagines Sokka’s breath brushing against his ear and whispering, ‘<em>I got you.’ </em>Courage swells in him, puffing his chest and pulling him taller. Flinging his eyes open, he finishes: “But I’m going to refuse. I don’t care what he threatens me with, but I won’t be his pawn. I won’t sit by and let him hurt hundreds, maybe even <em>thousands, </em>of patients.”</p><p><em>There, </em>he thinks, the words out of his mouth and taking with them a colossal weight he hadn’t known he carried; he hadn’t known it crushed him until it shifted off, unburdening him. <em>I’ve said it and now Father can try his worst. </em>Zuko refuses to be bullied, not when Mother’s gone missing, Azula has admitted Ozai’s horrible, and he has <em>friends </em>who care (or are beginning to care) about him.</p><p> Zuko watches the horror dawning across Dr. Jee’s face as if a slow-motion filter has been added to reality; as if the world’s been drained of color and he’s left in an old Hollywood drama. Dr. Jee’s face grays, his muscles slackening, and he says in a quiet voice, “I’m sorry, Zuko…but I couldn’t refuse.”</p><p>“You…what? You couldn’t refuse to—?” Zuko parrots, before swallowing back the question. He sees Dr. Jee watch him, knowing his dawning horror reflects on his own face. Though it’s the last question he wants to ask—proof his courage had been in vein—he <em>has</em> to ask. The words taste vile on his tongue, Zuko spitting out: “What do you mean you couldn’t refuse?”</p><p>“Your father…” Dr. Jee begins. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as if in physical pain, scrubbing hands at his cheeks, across his face. “Your father called and he reminded me about a malpractice law suit that your grandfather made go away. This was years ago and, <em>please, </em>you have to understand, I was just a med student at the time. If I had it hanging over my head, I never would have gotten my medical license. Your grandfather helped me settle it outside of court.”</p><p>Zuko can feel a headache growing behind his eyes. Gritting his teeth, ignoring it, he fills in for Dr. Jee: “And, let me guess, Azulon threw lawyers and briefcases full of money at the problem?”</p><p>“Well, I’m not sure there was an actual briefcase,” Dr. Jee returns weakly, knowing it’s not the point. A long, choppy exhale carrying an admission: “But yes. I knew it’d come back someday, that Azulon or your father would ask me a favor I couldn’t refuse. I had hoped it would be as simple as acting as your co-researcher on the lordilone, but—”</p><p>“But you were just manipulated into place in case Ozai couldn’t pull my strings,” Zuko interrupts, unable to keep the venom and vitriol from his words. He bites at the statement, like he could somehow chew up the words and pluck them from existence.</p><p>Dr. Jee winces but remains mute.</p><p>Clenching his hands, not aware of how his fingernails dug into the soft skin of his palms, Zuko asks, already knowing the answer, “So, you sent in the approval already? To the FDA?”</p><p>“Yes, this morning.”</p><hr/><p>“So, Sokka,” Yue says, her voice all high-pitched and airy, barely smothering her laughter. Sokka had cracked a joke about cactus joke being the ‘quenchiest’ which frankly hadn’t been that funny, but Yue laughed as if she were a paid live studio audience member. It makes Sokka’s skin prickle, his stomach roll; makes him feel like he’s a late-night talk-show buffoon with producers and interns too starstruck to tell him when his jokes are crusty.</p><p><em>Aang would’ve roasted me if I said that on the podcast, Katara would’ve never let me forget it, </em>Sokka thinks, as Yue composes herself. <em>Zuko would’ve— </em>Sokka physically shakes his head, dispelling the thought. It wouldn’t help to think of Zuko, not when this job would take him away from whatever fragile something-ship that bloomed between them.</p><p>He’d be pouring arsenic on his growing feelings for Zuko (not that Sokka’s really brave enough to label it ‘feelings’), if he were to move away. Although, basing his decisions on some potential romance with a man would be idiotic. If anything, Katara would be more enraged over that line of reasoning, than his whole ‘applying for a job literally across the country without telling anyone’ thing.</p><p>Yue tries again: “So, Sokka. We’re obviously considering you for more than just a content creator. I think your podcast is evidence enough for both your creativity <em>and </em>your business sense. As we’ve discussed, you’ve built the entire franchise from the ground up. So, I’m wondering if you could tell me what your business philosophy is.”</p><p>“Uh?” Sokka croaks, maybe a little enraptured with Zuko and not-thinking-about-Zuko, which in turn makes him think about him <em>more. </em>He grabs for his long-since empty mug, pretending to take a thoughtful sip in a desperate bid for time. He doesn’t have the consciousness to pray Yue doesn’t realize he’s drinking air, his mind scrambling for anything—literally <em>anything—</em>in his memory that could classify as ‘business’ or ‘philosophy.’</p><p>He starts slowly: “So, um. A business is like an onion.” Sokka squishes his eyes shut. <em>Oh, fuck, why did I land on Shrek of all things—?</em></p><p>“Oh, an onion? How so?” Yue prompts, eyes wide and curious.</p><p>Sokka eyes her, wondering if she could be feigning interest, but her eyes are <em>shining </em>with interest and her pretty features seem to have folded open in wide-eyed wonder. Irony, or disingenuousness, simply seems beyond Yue’s comprehension. <em>Well, looks like this is how I die, </em>Sokka thinks.</p><p>“So, onions have layers, right?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>“And just like an onion, a business needs to have layers to succeed at being ripe. I mean, ignore the fact that eating a raw onion is nasty, and think about, like, a tasty sautéed onion. You need all those flavors to a successful sauté, but the onion has to start with a strong center and then grow out from there.” Sokka makes a fist to demonstrate an onion’s center and, seriously, what the fuck is he talking about. Picking up steam, he plows on: “So, with the podcast, we had to have a strong center with content, before we could grow out to a ‘Chew and Chat’ segment, and then expand our audience, get sponsors, and sell merch. All those are layers. So, for <em>Ember.</em>, the center is the content and creators who put out quality content. Then we work out to worry about the money and business side, because we’re not going to make an impact—or a great onion sauté, if you will—if we don’t have the solid center.”</p><p><em>That wasn’t…completely terrible? </em>Sokka thinks, watching Yue slowly nod, absorbing the metaphor. There’s a lag in the Zoom video, making her movement jerky, like she’s unsure. Which, honestly? Fair.</p><p>Beside his computer, his phone lights up with a notification: a new text from Zuko Sozin, M.D. (yes, Sokka entered Zuko’s contact information like that; the man worked hard for that degree! Got to respect the hustle).</p><p>“Wow, that’s genius,” Yue offers after a dragging fifteen seconds, where Sokka presumes she’s trying to recalibrate her worldview to understand how a stupid onion metaphor about business can exist. “And it’s interesting, because an onion is usually not a very desirable vegetable, just like how companies sometimes get a bad reputation. It’s so much more symbolic than if you did something inherently good with layers, like a parfait or cake.”</p><p>“Uh-huh, exactly,” Sokka agrees, knowing he should feel guilty for letting her expand his dumbass metaphor, but too busy using her distraction as cover for tapping in his phone’s passcode and opening his conversations.</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>is that offer still good? That you can be a buffer?</p><p>A shot of cold zips through Sokka’s limbs, plunging his heart into an artic sea. The questions read innocuously, but Sokka can also <em>sense </em>the barely tethered panic behind them</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Of course, what’s up?</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Can you meet me at North Avenue Beach?</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>On my way.</p><p>Yue’s talking.</p><p>“Sorry, the connection broke up there for a second,” Sokka lies seamlessly, beginning to comb through excuses to cut the interview short without completely undermining his chances with <em>Ember. </em>(not that he’s actually considering the job; it’d just be nice to be wanted, right? Right).</p><p>“Oh, sorry,” Yue replies. The connection had legitimately broken up a handful of times throughout the interview, and Yue has a compulsive need to apologize for it. If Sokka’s heart wasn’t hammering out the dragging seconds, seconds he stalled running to Zuko, he might’ve considered that she was kind of adorable. “I was saying that this was the last of my questions. Do you have anything for me?”</p><p>“Oh, uh, no. I think you’ve answered all of my questions as we were talking.” It’s a quick response, too hurried and tinged with panic. Sokka hopes his wide smile will bely any suspicion.</p><p>“Wonderful! Well, feel free to reach out to me if you do think of anything. It was so great to talk with you, Sokka, and you should expect an email from us in an hour or two.” She fixes him with a conspiratorial smile. “Let’s just say this will be a pretty easy hiring decision on our end.”</p><p>Sokka knows he doesn’t react how she anticipates; he doesn’t whoop or grin madly or pump his fists. Her smile dulls, a question twisting her white eyebrows, as he remains politely constrained: “Oh, wonderful. I’ll keep an eye out for it. And great to talk with you, too, Ms. Taqqiq. Seriously, such an honor, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.”</p><p>Her silent question only growing, Yue nods. “Okay? Um, well, goodbye. Have a good day, Sokka!”</p><p>“Thanks, you too,” Sokka barely manages to get in before he’s ending the Zoom call. He doesn’t bother to even close his laptop, instead making a mad grab for his coat, scarf, and boots. Within a minute, he’s out of the apartment and pulling up his transit app to map out the quickest route to the lake front.</p><p>To Zuko.</p><hr/><p>March winds send gray waves battering at the cold sands of North Avenue Beach.</p><p>Zuko cuts a lonely figure in the long ribbon of pale sand stretched between the green-brown median separating North Avenue from the beach-front walk and the beach itself. He’s one of the only people on the sand, a blip of black clothing, his usually carefully combed hair whipping, as though the wind ran its fingers through it. And <em>no, </em>Sokka isn’t jealous of the wind because <em>he </em>wants to run his fingers through Zuko’s hair. Being jealous of a naturally occurring phenomena is ridiculous.</p><p>Sokka hurries across the shifting sand as quickly as his duck-footed steps will allow, and Zuko twists around at his approach. Sitting on his coat as a blanket, his knees drawn up below his chin and held close by his arms, Zuko looks unthinkably small. It nearly makes Sokka stagger to a paralyzed standstill: Zuko, though unassuming and awkward, is meant to occupy <em>space.</em></p><p>His rare smiles, his even rarer laugh; the fire dancing in his eyes when he indulges Sokka in one of his crazed conversational nose-dives or his enthusiasm over cemeteries and ghouls; his shy glances and lip-nibbling. Zuko’s meant to inhabit universes, fill cosmos, with the sheer magnitude of <em>him</em>: the gravity of who he is, how he sucks air from Sokka’s lungs just by entering a room, how he sets his body afire with a single glance; that is what Zuko has begun to mean to Sokka.</p><p>But his smallness, his folded legs and hunched back, makes Sokka realize Zuko doesn’t know any of it. He doesn’t know his rarity, his goodness, too convinced he doesn’t deserve to occupy any space, never mind the entire galaxy. As though someone has twisted his sense of self into such a microscopic thing, he dares not breath too much air for fear he isn’t worthy of existing at all.</p><p>It fissures a deep gorge in Sokka’s heart, weakening his knees, and making him collapse in the sand next to Zuko. Flinging his arms around Zuko—not caring about professionalism, or all his carefully made promises to himself that Zuko is his friend and <em>nothing more—</em>Sokka buries his nose in Zuko’s hair. He smells of sage, sea salt, and clinical cleaner.</p><p>Zuko holds himself rigid for a dragging moment, a second long enough to just allow Sokka to begin to regain his sense and realize he needs to let go, before he melts into Sokka’s arms. He leans his head against Sokka’s chest, ear pressed to his chest.</p><p>They sit there, backs to the wind but creating a sanctum of peace between them, for some time. Sokka’s not sure how long.</p><p>Then, Zuko begins talking: “You know that stressful stuff I mentioned?”</p><p>“With your sister?”</p><p>“No, the other stressful stuff.” Sokka nods, and Zuko must feel it because he continues: “I was talking about my job. My dad…well, does the name Phoenix Pharmaceuticals mean anything to you?”</p><p>“Um, sort of?” Sokka’s brain spirals with confusion, wondering how they went from Zuko’s father to a discussion of a minor pharmaceutical company but senses he needs to allow Zuko the time to think, to talk. He doesn’t pry.</p><p>“Well, my family owns it.” <em>Ah. </em>“My father is the CEO, Ozai Sozin, and he…he had been doing a clinical trial for a new drug. Lordilone.”</p><p>“Like cortisone?”</p><p>“Exactly like cortisone.” Sokka swears he hears a twinge of amusement twinging Zuko’s voice, as if he’s pleased Sokka knows what that is, but Sokka’s not quite brave enough to lean back and glance at Zuko’s face; he’s too selfish to draw away from him quite yet. “Except it’s supposed to be a cheaper alternative. Something patients can buy en masse. Sometimes companies go for super specific specialty drugs, but my father wants to sell a lot of this lordilone for cheap, sell it for less than the competition, and really established the Phoenix name.”</p><p>Sokka waits for Zuko to continue, watching how the wind plucks at strands of Zuko’s hair, sending it dancing and wavering. He watches how his hair seems to take on a shine in its inky blackness.</p><p>“But the drug, the lordilone, was a dud. It doesn’t work, at best. At worst, it caused some pretty bad side-effects I told my father that, but he wanted me to falsify the results and get it sent to the FDA anyway.”</p><p>The admission is so soft, nearly lost in the folds of Sokka’s coat, for a moment he thinks he imagines words carried on the wind. His mind catches up. “But…but isn’t that…?”</p><p>“Crazy illegal? Yeah,” Zuko replies, ruefulness twisting his voice into something ugly and dead; a voice Sokka doesn’t recognize.</p><p>He thinks for a moment. “You know, this kind of sounds like…” He catches himself before he can finish. <em>‘This sounds like a problem one of my fans sent into the podcast I still haven’t told you about; the podcast that might have gotten me a job in New York City, which I still haven’t told you about,’ </em>Sokka doesn’t say. He hurriedly covers: “This sounds like your dad’s a complete asshole. He’s using you without caring that you’re endangering thousands of sick people and that you may get into major trouble yourself.”</p><p>“I know, that’s why I decided I wasn’t going to do it,” Zuko replies. “But, I didn’t realize he got his hooks into my research partner. He signed and sent off the drug for approval.”</p><p>“So,” Sokka croaks, floundering. <em>God, </em>he’s so far out of his depth, but damnit if his heart doesn’t ache for the beautiful boy in his arms. Damnit if he’s not going to try to be supportive and <em>there </em>for Zuko, even though he barely understands all this medical maneuvering. He repeats: “So, um, so there’s nothing you can do? You can’t call it back, or be like ‘psych, just kidding’? That’s it? Your dad wins?”</p><p>Zuko sounds like the truth hurts to say: “Yeah. Yeah. If I were to recall the approval request, then it’d basically be calling out Dr. Jee submitting insufficient data and calling in his professional credibility. And for all that he let my father manipulate him, I don’t want to hurt him. I know…” His voice falls to a whisper and Sokka wants to find this Ozai Sozin and punch him in the nose. Maybe even break his teeth. Because Zuko sounds small, <em>broken, </em>and Sokka wonders if he ever was truly whole. “I know what it’s like to be twisted around by my father’s schemes.”</p><p>“Zuko…” Sokka begins, only to realize any comforts he could give would be hollow, insufficient in providing any semblance of consolation. “Zuko, I’m so sorry.”</p><p>He feels Zuko nod against his chest.</p><p>“I just…it’s my fault. If I could have just told him ‘no’ immediately; if I could have talked to Dr. Jee and cut off the whole situation.” Zuko extracts himself suddenly from Sokka’s arms, laughing with a sharp deprecation. “If I hadn’t been a fucking coward and stood up to him.” Eyes shining, he meets Sokka’s eyes and forces out, as though he deserved the verbal flagellation, “I told him I’d do it initially, Sokka. I told him I’d send in the papers and trick thousands of <em>sick </em>people—people I’m meant to <em>protect—</em>I would’ve tricked them because I’m terrified of my father. Sokka, this is what I meant when I said I’m not a good person. I was trying to protect you and—and I’m so sorry, I just—”</p><p>His voice breaks entirely. He stares hard down at his fingers, knotting and unknotting together in his lap.</p><p>As Sokka listens, he feels fire igniting in his veins, as if gasoline had replaced blood and a spark had been borne into a mighty inferno. His fingers quack with emotion, his breath coming hard, and he reaches to still Zuko’s hands with his own. Lowly, barely tempering his rage, Sokka says, “Zuko, fuck your dad. He’s a horrible person, and he’s trying to twist you and use you, but you’re <em>not </em>a bad person. You didn’t let him use you, and that’s what matters.”</p><p>Zuko stares at him, eyes rounding at the flintiness hardening in Sokka’s blue eyes. “Sokka, I—? Why…why do you care? I’m…I’m sorry I dragged you into this, I didn’t mean to dump all of this on you, but I didn’t know who to turn to. I only have Toph, but she’s shit at emotions and my family, but I know how they’ll react. I’m sorry if this is overstepping our friendship—”</p><p>“Please. Stop. Apologizing,” Sokka cuts in, wishing he could punch or scream at something or at least get his anger in check to be what Zuko needed right now. Because Zuko’s golden eyes hold apprehension, fear of disappointing yet another person, and Sokka wants to comfort him just as much as he wants to track down Ozai and watch him suffer. He lets out a hot breath. “I’m sorry, that sounded really angry, but I’m not angry with you. I just…stop apologizing, Zuko. I <em>asked </em>you to call me if you needed someone to vent to. I want to be here for you, so you need to stop worrying about that.”</p><p>Zuko chews at his lip like he desperately wants to rebuke Sokka, to argue he’s not someone worth showing up for, but he stays silent.</p><p>“And I finally get it,” Sokka says. “I get why you think you’re a bad person, even though you’re really not. Ozai’s poisoned you against yourself, and even though you actively recognize he’s horrible, you still let him tell you how to think about yourself. I really pisses me off.”</p><p> Zuko huffs a sigh. “I don’t get it; why? Why do you care? We barely know each other—”</p><p>And Sokka moves before he makes the decision; before he can weigh the risks. He acts impulsively for perhaps the first time in his life: he leans forward, bridging the gap between them, hands leaving Zuko’s only to gently cradle his face, and he captures his mouth. The kiss is rushed, teeth bumping teeth, but then their lips slot together and Sokka finds Zuko’s lower lip. It’s like kissing fire, warmth filling him initially before a scorching flame begins to burn him alive.</p><p>Yet, fire is voracious, consuming everything in its path, and Sokka finds he, too, cannot be satisfied. Sokka inches himself closer, drawing Zuko in closer, and he deepens the kiss to nibble at Zuko’s lower lip, to memorize the feeling of Zuko’s hard chest against his as if he might ingrain the sensation into the graft of his skin forever. As if they kiss long enough, hard enough, time—and the world—might fall away.</p><p>But, soon, they break apart for air.</p><p>Around a gasp, Sokka fixes him with a lopsided grin. “<em>That’s </em>why I care.”</p><p>And Zuko stares at him, a smile inching across his swollen-pink lips, and they might have gone on staring at each other for hours if a bright, artificial <em>‘biiiing!’ </em>didn’t chirp from Zuko’s coat pocket. Moving as though underwater, dazed and never tearing his eyes from Sokka’s, Zuko pats at his pocket and eventually fishes out his phone.</p><p>Sokka’s attention shifts from Zuko’s face to the text notification from someone named Azula.</p><p><strong>Azula: </strong>Just came out on <em>The</em> <em>New York Times; </em>a whistleblower has exposed dad for insider trading and the company is being sued for $1.3B.</p><p>Sokka recovers first: “I’m guessing the ‘b’ doesn’t stand for bucks? It’s not one-point-three bucks?”</p><p>Zuko shakes his head, a strange collage of swollen lips, paling skin, and scrunched eyebrows. “No, one-point-three <em>billion</em>,” he replies, distracted. Burying his face in his hands, he mutters: “Shit.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A cautionary tale about the value of exiting out of your email when you leave your laptop unattended.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Many thanks to @cinnamoncookies, who is truly the hero I don't deserve: she's out here doing calc tests AND beta'ing chapters all in one day!! Can you believe?!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sokka keeps a mental laundry list of regrets from throughout his life.</p><p>It always surfaces in his memory as he’s trying to fall asleep, seizing him with such an uncontrollable amount of cringe, it chases sleep off for a good three hours as he mentally berates himself for the time he spilled a full mug of coffee all over his AP Chem classroom junior year of high school; the time he did a sneeze-fart-combo in front of the love of his life (or so he convinced himself then), Hahn, at his first and only frat party; the time he walked into a wall while interviewing a witness for a podcast episode on demonic possession. Honestly, kissing Zuko only to have him literally run away is comparatively bearable.</p><p>But why does it sting, pointed and acidic, even when every exposed patch of his skin feels like it’s liable to freeze and break off?</p><p>Logically, he knows it’s ridiculous for a small knot to form in his chest. Logically, he knows he should shun the roiling queasiness of embarrassment in his stomach. But then, Sokka’s never claimed to be logical.</p><p>Zuko blurted out ‘gotta go,’ and practically sprinted across the sand, leaving Sokka dumbstruck and paralyzed, helpless to stop him from leaving. Sokka knows Zuko rushed off to deal with a crisis—his family is <em>literally </em>imploding—but Zuko took all the warmth in the world with him, leaving Sokka shivering and wondering why he’d kissed Zuko when he was so obviously emotionally fragile.</p><p>The queasiness in Sokka’s stomach threatens to become full-on nausea.</p><p><em>What if Zuko didn’t </em>really <em>want to kiss me? </em>Sokka wonders, staring down at the Uber app on his phone, informing him his driver would be arriving in three minutes. He couldn’t limp all the way home; not when he’s likely to collapse from the sheer exhaustion overwhelming him now that the adrenaline from the kiss has drained. <em>What if I took advantage of him in a moment of weakness?</em></p><p>Sokka chews at his lower lip.</p><p>Zuko <em>had </em>kissed back, Sokka knew that; he doubted he’d ever forget the feeling of Zuko’s lips pressing urgently against his, a famished man finally given sustenance. But kissing doesn’t account for mental state, does it?</p><p>Sokka sighs, shucking off his beanie to scrub a hand at his hair. He knows it messes up his ponytail (‘man-pony,’ as he always refers to it on the podcast) but can’t quite be bothered to care. He stuffs the beanie back on. The wind rips along the lakefront, and what had been tolerable in the hunkered, shared warmth with Zuko now feels soul-wrenching, life-draining, like the wind could serrate him and sweep away his miserable existence.</p><p><em>Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, </em>Sokka wonders, because what if he’d ruined whatever chance he had with Zuko? What if he never gets see his little smile fixed on him again? Never told an endless string of bad jokes just to tease out one laugh, rare and precious, from Zuko? What if Zuko never invented wild stories about cemetery headstones, or never planned out hypothetical trips to Disney World with him again? Sokka imagines his weak grasp on a future where Zuko wore Mickey Mouse ears as Sokka cajoled him into taking a photo with Chewbacca slipping, falling into a void of impossibility.</p><p>He knows it’s stupid, to build his hopes on nothing, so when his Uber finally arrives, he resolves to leave his romanticized daydreams on the sidewalk behind him. If Zuko still wants to be friends—a big ‘<em>if’</em>—that’s all Sokka will be: a friend. A friend who doesn’t spring unwanted kisses on him, a friend who listens and consoles and is <em>there </em>for him. Because, <em>God, I want to be there for him.</em></p>
<hr/><p>The bell above the door dances madly when Zuko bursts through the Jasmine Dragon’s door. None of the patrons glance up from the laptops, but Azula and Uncle blink at him from the serving counter.</p><p>Hurrying in, Zuko huffs out: “Sorry, I tried to get here as quickly as possible. I was across—” His words putter into silence, his eyes latching on a black, hard-shell suitcase parked at Azula’s side. “What’s going on? Are you going somewhere? At a time like this?”</p><p>Both of Azula’s perfect eyebrows raise. “Yes, of course. I need to go back home and deal with damage control.”</p><p>“I’m driving her to the airport,” Uncle adds. “Do you want to come along?”</p><p>Zuko swallows back his immediate refusal (a habit borne out of survival: Uncle is truly an atrocious driver), forcing himself to nod. “Of course.” A family emergency trumped his fear for his bodily wellbeing.</p><p>Five minutes later, a chai latte in Azula’s hand, they’ve piled into Uncle’s ancient Mercury Sable and slowly navigate late afternoon traffic, darting from stoplight to stoplight to hurry up and wait with the pack of other cars heading for the interstate and O’Hare airport beyond. “Did you read the article?” Azula asks, twisting around in shotgun to pin Zuko with an expectant stare.</p><p>Deciding now’s not the time to save face, Zuko replies: “No, I was a bit busy running a footrace to get to the Jasmine Dragon.”</p><p>Azula purses her lips, visibly internalizing a snarky comment she would have laid on him not with no hesitation (and quite a bit of venom) too long ago. <em>Self-control, </em>Zuko thinks, <em>that’s new for her. </em>In a measured tone, she replies, “Well, if you had bothered, you would have read that Father is accused of giving insider trading information on Phoenix stocks.”</p><p>Before his brain can catch up with his mouth, Zuko squeaks out: “So it’s not about trying to pass off faulty medicine?”</p><p>Azula gives him something like a sympathetic smile (or, well, a smirky-thing since its Azula) and Zuko catches a flash of Uncle’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “No, Zuzu.” And maybe for the first time in their lives, affection—and not derision—tinges that nickname. Throughout his middle school years, when their relationship seemed already too warped beyond repair, Zuko imagined what it would be like for his sister to use his nickname fondly instead of spitting it out like a curse. He’s not prepared for the wetness prickling behind his eyes, how he feels his head perk up like he’s seen Druk do when his name is called.</p><p>If Azula notices Zuko’s tentative smile, she’s too embarrassed to comment on it. She continues, “No, it’s not the lordilone. I mean, you still haven’t sent in the papers, right? This might be the deux ex machina exit we were needing.”</p><p>Now, Zuko allows Uncle to catch his eyes in the mirror. Zuko reads his thoughts clearly, the surprise over Azula’s use of a ‘we.’ Blinking, re-centering his focus on the more pressing issues at hand, Zuko says, “Well, it <em>would </em>have been a way out except Dr. Jee had other ideas.”</p><p>Surprisingly, it’s Uncle who lets out a long sigh. “Does this have anything to do with your grandfather buying out his malpractice lawsuit?”</p><p>“Yes, exactly,” Zuko blurts, blinking. Sometimes he forgets Uncle used to be a cog in the Phoenix Pharma capitalistic machine. “How did you know about it?”</p><p>“It was in the days that Azulon was still training me to take over the company, but I refused to get involved in it. It seemed a pity for such a young man to have his life ruined, but I also felt that it would also be morally reprehensible action for the company to own him,” Uncle Iroh explains, voice hardening from the usual soft lilt Zuko’s accustomed to; it’s moments like this, rearing only occasionally but always successful in shuttering the breath from Zuko’s lungs, that Iroh reminds him why he was known as ‘the Dragon of the West.’ Whereas New York had the Wolf of Wall Street, west of the Mississippi had a dragon, and everyone knows a dragon could snap a wolf in half with one click of its jaws.</p><p>Zuko tries to swallow past a sudden dryness in his throat. His eyes cut to Azula, who’s watching Uncle with still intensity, like she’s a nature documentarian studying a wild creature in its natural habitat.</p><p>Uncle continues: “But Ozai begged Azulon, claiming Jee was a friend and could potentially be an asset.”</p><p>Azula seems to unfreeze in an instant, snapping out: “But Ozai doesn’t believe in friends, he just buys people to add to his puppet collection.”</p><p>Uncle Iroh nods. “Exactly. I feared there’d come a time when Jee’s debt would be called in, but I didn’t consider it’d be over the lordilone clinical trials.” Pause, the Sable easing to a standstill, the ramp to get onto I-90 slowing a creep. Uncle twists around to fix Zuko with a sincere sadness. “I apologize, Nephew.”</p><p>Nibbling his lip, Zuko shakes his head. “No, Uncle; it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have predicted what Father’s schemes were. You don’t know his mind, and I don’t think anyone wants to.”</p><p>Uncle laughs, a rueful and dry sound, twisting back to the wheel. “Very true.” They start moving again.</p><p>“Anyway,” Azula picks up, clearing her throat. Displays of emotion have always put her ill-at-ease. “The whistleblower probably came from somewhere in the company.”</p><p>“Why do we think that?” Zuko asks.</p><p>“<em>We </em>don’t,” Uncle clarifies.</p><p>“But Ozai does,” Azula adds, unlocking her phone and handing it over for Zuko’s inspection. On the screen, an email from Ozai stares out at him. A quick glance at the recipient list shows the highest-up members of the company—the CFO, the VPs, the general councilmembers like Azula—and the body of the message can be summarized in two words: internal manhunt.</p><p>“Damn,” Zuko mutters, handing the phone back. “What if the federal investigators find out about this?”</p><p>Azula shakes her head. “It’s sent from an encrypted email that can’t be traced back to Ozai in particular, just the company in general, and right now he’s the only one that’s technically in trouble. Of course, once the Feds start digging, shit is going to hit the fan.” She gives Zuko a sympathetic look. “Which is why you’re going to have to resend that FDA approval.”</p><p>“But Dr. Jee’s professionalism—”</p><p>“Won’t mean shit,” Azula cuts in, “if falsified evidence on clinical testing is added to a case against Ozai and Phoenix Pharma; you <em>and </em>Jee will go down, Zuko. No one will give a shit that you tried to stop the approval papers, or I went behind Father’s back, or Uncle is technically not a stakeholder anymore, or Cousin Lu Ten is on a different continent, or Mother is literally missing. They’re going to come for us all, Zuko, and they won’t stop until we’re torn apart.” </p><p>Silence blankets the Sable, Azula’s heaving breath—her rant the equivalent of a verbal marathon—calming into steady breaths. Puckering her mouth, as if in mute refusal to apologize for her hard truths, she leans her cheek into her palm and glares out at the other cars they snail passed. Zuko eyes her reflection in the side mirror, catching Uncle’s eyes in the rearview, and he <em>knows </em>he should be panicking. Knows his hands should shake from fear, his stomach should churn from the complete lack of control, but an inexplicit calmness settles heavy on his limbs.</p><p>He feels tucked under a weighted blanket, pinned in place but somehow comforted. As if having the very worst reality laid out before him quells his imagination’s nightmares.</p><p>Uncle breaks the silence. “I got a text back from Lu Ten.”</p><p>“Oh?” Zuko says. Azula doesn’t tear her eyes from the interstate outside the window, though an eyebrow does quirk in interest. “What did he say?”</p><p>“Apparently, Ursa got into contact with him two weeks ago,” Uncle Iroh explains. In addition to being the family’s personal lawyer, he acted as international law advisor for Phoenix Pharma’s East Asia branch in the Hong Kong office. With the time difference, it sometimes took a day to reply to texts because of the time delay. “He says that Ursa changed her will.”</p><p>“She <em>what</em>?” Zuko squawks. “Why? How? Could he say?”</p><p>“No, not with confidentiality issues.” Uncle shakes his head.</p><p>Briefly, the memory of the kiss—of Sokka’s lips moving against his—flashes through Zuko’s memory, leaving a blaze of embarrassment reddening his cheeks. Cousin Lu Ten certainly had a better grasp of professionalism than him.</p><p>“But he could tell me that the changes made seem in step with her going missing,” Uncle Iroh adds. “In fact, when I told him, he wasn’t surprised at all.”</p><p>“Well, that’s good news; at least we know she wasn’t kidnapped for ransom, or something,” Zuko says, though it’s a weak joke. If Ursa had been kidnapped, Ozai would have used it as a PR stunt, painting himself the aggrieved and loving husband. It would’ve been a very low-budget, hardly palpable <em>Gone Girl </em>remake, and though no one in the car voices it, they all think it. Zuko tacks on: “Do you think she could’ve gotten wind of the whistleblower somehow and gone into hiding to avoid the controversy?”</p><p>“It’s possible.” Uncle shrugs before releasing a long-suffering sigh as a Toyota RAV-4 swerves into their lane, dangerously close to crashing them into the Sable’s front fender. Uncle refuses to use his horn, instead resorting to deeply disapproving sighs.</p><p>Azula glares at the Toyota for him, before her eyes snap wide and she swings around to stare at Uncle and Zuko in turn. “Of course! I get it! It all makes sense: Mother <em>is </em>the whistleblower! <em>That’s</em> why she disappeared. She went into a witness protection program, where she could watch us all go down burning without getting her hands dirty!”</p>
<hr/><p>“Hello? Sokka?” calls Aang as he negotiates the apartment door open while extracting his key from the lock. Katara and Sokka gave him a spare months ago, though this is the first time he had to use it. Flicking on the living room lights, Aang’s frown deepens as he shuffles into the distinctly Sokka-less room, peering into the galley kitchen beyond. Appa patters in at his heels, immediately flopping onto the carpet. To Appa, Aang asks, “Where do you think he is?”</p><p>Appa, of course, doesn’t reply.</p><p>Aang goes along the hall to Sokka’s bedroom, poking his head through the ajar door; the lights are out, the bed characteristically is unmade. It’s also devoid of humanity. Worry begins to niggle at Aang’s mind. He’d stopped into the Jasmine Dragon after work, where he always met Sokka to review his research for next week’s episode, but Jet, the usual Monday barista, said he hadn’t seen Sokka all day. Then, Aang sent off a series of texts that went ignored, even though Sokka’s response time only exceeded ten minutes when he wasn’t sleeping, and—from the emptiness of his bed—he definitely wasn’t doing that.</p><p><em>Did something…happen? </em>Aang wonders, returning to the living room. Appa thumps his tail, not bothering to lift his head, in the lazy hope of pets, but Aang’s too distracted: his eyes catch on Sokka’s laptop. It’s open on the kitchen counter, the screen dark, but an array of notes and paperwork fan out beside it. It looks like Sokka left in a hurry, couldn’t be bothered to organize his papers despite Katara constantly getting on his case about it. Organizing the papers into a neat pile, Aang finds most of the pages are printed-off articles on Route 66 ghost lights, annotated with Sokka’s chicken scratches. He pauses, eyebrows marching together: his notebook is covered in questions titled ‘For interview.’</p><p>“What interview?” Aang mutters. He sets aside the other papers, scanning the list of questions, but they’re all fairly generic inquiries about recording equipment, or suggestions for fresh content; it could be for any company in Sokka’s field. <em>But even if it was just a throw-away interview, he’d tell me about it right? </em>Aang rationalizes.</p><p>Sokka and he are best friends.</p><p>They have been since Aang’s freshman year of high school. Sokka had always been a distant star to him: a bright-burning gas giant that a snivelly, awkward kid like Aang could only admire and idolize from a distance, even if he only lived five doors down from the Imiq family. Then, high school happened along with marching band, and Sokka was his section leader. Aang was a pet-project initially; a popular sixteen-year-old like Sokka would never <em>genuinely </em>want to befriend a too-skinny fourteen-year-old. But then band camp, cancer, and college happened (not necessarily in that order). Sokka and, later, Katara proved to be the only ones willing to stick by his side when he grew thinner, shaved his head, and laid incapacitated for months as the cancer cells and regime of drugs duked it out. Most of Aang’s memories from his senior year of high school are of an endless parade of beige hospital rooms and Sokka’s laugh as he posted up at Aang’s bedside for hours.</p><p>When Aang emerged from remission, he realized a brotherhood had been forged between him and Sokka (and a deep, abiding crush on Katara, but <em>I’m not going to let myself think about that right now, </em>Aang coaches internally). Aang promised to be there for Sokka in everything, just as he had for Aang. Every late-night pig-out at Steak N’ Shake got an immediate yes; every Super Smash Bros. tournament was followed by another and another until their eyes and thumbs hurt, no hesitation. When Sokka dropped the idea for <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>and research for the first five episodes literally in Aang’s lap, the answer was a rapid ‘yes.’</p><p>And Aang’s grown to love the weird folklore and even weirder people they’ve met through the podcast; he loves the excuse to follow his curiosity, and let a little wonder into his life. Yet, he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t essentially an excuse to hang out with Sokka every week; to joke and banter with one of the best people in Aang’s life. A person who wouldn’t keep anything—not even an interview he’s not seriously considering—from Aang.</p><p><em>Right</em>?</p><p>Aang sets aside the papers, waking up the computer and tapping in Sokka’s password (‘Boomerangguy!420’). The screen winks open to Sokka’s personal email and a single new message, bold and unread, presides over the inbox. Labeled ‘Re: Interview,’ the sender’s address reads yue.taqqiq@ember.com. Aang chews at his lower lip, staring hard at the email as if in a staring context he must win to determine the fate of all humankind. He knows it’s wrong—<em>so wrong—</em>to read Sokka’s personal email, especially since he knows what it will say. There’s no way a result from an interview involving Sokka Imiq, mastermind behind the fastest growing paranormal podcast ever and editor extraordinaire, could be anything other than a job offer.</p><p>For one brief second, Aang desperately wishes Sokka wasn’t so talented; he wishes people didn’t recognize his comedic timing, or quick wit, or magical technology skills. It’s selfish, ugly, a feeling Aang immediately hates himself for, but he can’t squash it before it lampoons into his heart and begins to twist it towards resentment. He forces out a shaky breath. Another.</p><p>Slamming his eyes shut, Aang digs his palms into his eye-sockets as if he might scrub away the sight, the knowledge, of the job offer. <em>Ember. </em>Why did it have to be <em>Ember.? </em>He’s heard Sokka wistfully sigh over their website; their content. Aang knows it’s Sokka’s dream job, but something only joked about in passing.</p><p>(‘They’d be my one cheat,’ Sokka had joked, legs crossed under him, sitting on his threadbare couch. Outside, the November wind rattled the window screens.</p><p>Aang glanced up from his review of a new patient’s case file, a little girl with a history of a violent temper. Shaking his head to physically clear it, Aang asked, ‘Huh?’</p><p>Sokka turned his computer screen to show <em>Ember.</em>’s landing page. ‘You know how people have celebrities who their significant other agrees would be an allowed ‘cheat?’ Well <em>Ember. </em>would be my allowed cheat on <em>C/D.’ </em>He fixed Aang with a manic grin.</p><p>Aang rolled his eyes fondly.)</p><p>Aang wouldn’t stand in the way Sokka’s dreams, but why hadn’t he <em>told </em>him? Was he afraid of Aang’s reaction? <em>But he knows me too well, right? He knows I’d support him, right? </em>Aang thinks, hands dropping from his face. Turning to Appa, his pink tongue lulling out of his great white muzzle, Aang repeats aloud, “Right, buddy?”</p><p>Appa blinks back, bottomless black eyes soulful and yearning for attention.</p><p>A key scratching at the door, slotting into the lock. The door swings open.</p><p>“Oh,” Katara exclaims, eyes immediately finding Aang. “Hi, I’m glad you’re here. I was about to bust open a can of whoop-ass if Sokka left the door unlocked again.” She slides her backpack, stuffed with assignments to grade, off her shoulders and peels off her coat. “Where is Sokka, anyway? Why aren’t you guys researching?”</p><p>The anxiety in Aang’s chest unspools once, twice, somehow calmed that his concern is justified; it’s rare for Sokka to spend a Monday afternoon not hunched over podcast research. “I’m not sure,” Aang replies. “I’ve tried his phone, but he’s not answering. I’ve already been to the Jasmine Dragon, and Jet told me he hasn’t been in all day. Jet did promise he’d call if he showed, though.”</p><p>Katara stills at the mention of Jet, perhaps out of habit, before exhaling a long breath and forcing herself to relax. Hanging up her coat and kicking her shoes off, she says, “Well, do you think he just left for a minute? Like, went to the grocery store because he ran out of cereal to microwave?”</p><p>Aang can’t keep a sloped grin from tugging across his face. “Are you still hung up on that?” he teases.</p><p>Katara tosses him a smile (<em>calm down, calm down, she smiles at all her friends, </em>Aang chants) and goes to the kitchen. “Yeah, because it’s new levels of gross and weird, even for him. Do you want a smoothie? I’m going to make one.”</p><p>“Um, sure,” Aang replies, going to awkwardly hover at the end of the counter. The kitchen’s a narrow galley; he doesn’t want to crowd her but also can’t fight his natural yearning to be near her.</p><p>“Coming right up,” she returns, before her eyes latch on Sokka’s pile of papers and recently closed laptop. “Look, he’s left all his stuff out; he definitely just left for a second.”</p><p>“Well, uh,” Aang croaks, wondering if he should mention the interview, but then Katara’s staring at him expectantly. He ducks his head, feeling redness gathering in his ears and along his cheeks. He’s horrible at lying, even omitting truths, to her. She can always sniff out when he’s holding out. So, Aang blurts all at once: “Actually, his papers were kind of a mess when I got here. I fixed them and, well, um, I kind of accidentally discovered he’s interviewed for a job.”</p><p>“Oh, really?” One of her eyebrows climb. “I’m surprised; he’s always telling me he’s running off his feet with the podcast. Do you think he can handle it?”</p><p>“Well, that’s the thing: he applied for <em>Ember.</em>” Aang braces himself for impact, but Katara’s mouth only presses into a slant of confusion. He lets out a small sigh, explaining: “It’s a media, news, and entertainment site. Kind of like <em>Buzzfeed, </em>but they focus on horror, thriller, and supernatural media and are also, well, aren’t shit like <em>Buzzfeed</em>. They’re based in New York City, so Sokka would have to move out there.”</p><p>Katara’s eyes round into circles, her mouth hinging. After a dragging moment, she manages to squeak out: “Moving?”</p><p>Aang nods, a wary confirmation, because <em>squeaking </em>isn’t usually in Katara’s repertoire of reactions. Typically, it’s grand explosions of emotions, eloquent but searing verbal takedowns; he’s worried if he says one more wrong word, he’ll set off the ticking timebomb of Katara’s temper.</p><p>Fortunately for Aang and unfortunately for Sokka, the latter chooses to make his entrance then.</p><p>“Oh, hey, you guys are both home,” Sokka observes, a sort heavying his mouth. Aang squints at him; there’s no way Sokka had just been at the grocery store. Besides having no bags in sight, literally no one has ever returned from the grocery store looking so defeated unless the store was all out of overpriced avocadoes except for a very small, very sad, brown one.</p><p>“Sokka? What happened?” Aang asks, moving toward him, <em>Ember. </em>employment opportunities temporarily forgotten.</p><p>Before he can respond, Katara’s cognitive process catches up with her. It’s a detonation: “Were you planning on telling us you’re moving to New York, or were we just supposed to find out when we woke up one morning to find all your shit gone?” she demands. Pellets of spit flies as she surges past Aang to stab an accusing finger into Sokka’s face.</p><p>Aang cringes at the use of ‘we;’ he wishes he could disappear. He wishes he couldn’t be involved. He wishes he could rewind time and punch himself before he could confide in Katara. For all that she’s the love of his life (according to no one but him), she has literally no chill when it comes to her temper. Especially when Sokka’s concerned.</p><p>Holding his hands up, Sokka squawks, “What? How did you know?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, I accidentally found out and told her—” Aang begins.</p><p>“Don’t act like you’re not betrayed, too,” Katara snaps, eyes darting to him and Aang suddenly understands the phrase ‘if looks could kill.’</p><p>“‘Betrayed?’” Sokka repeats. “That isn’t what I—I’d never want to throw out everything we’ve built with <em>Cryptid, </em>or the life we’ve made here in Chicago, I wouldn’t go without—”</p><p>Katara scoffs, holding her arms. “Please, how else are we supposed to feel other than betrayed?”</p><p>Aang watches the words slam into Sokka, how it weighs on his already stooped shoulders, and he hurries to try to wedge himself between the siblings. He’s marginally successful. “Sokka, Katara didn’t mean that; we’re not mad—”</p><p>Katara snorts.</p><p>“<em>I’m </em>not mad,” Aang amends, shooting her a pleading look that he hopes she’ll interpret as ‘please work with me here.’ Returning to Sokka, he adds, “I’m really not. I mean, why would I be mad that my best friend has this amazing job opportunity? You’ve literally been talking about <em>Ember. </em>forever and I am not about to stand in the way of your future success.”</p><p>Sokka won’t meet his eyes, staring hard down at the toes of his boots.</p><p>Silence. Then, sharper than Aang would’ve liked, Katara relents: “And I’m not mad about the job, either; obviously, you’re my brother and I want you to chase your dreams. But <em>why, </em>for fuck’s sake, did you not <em>tell</em> me? Moving to New York—even just <em>thinking </em>about it—is a big deal.”</p><p>“I didn’t—it’s not like—” Sokka starts. He yanks off his beanie and runs a hand through his ponytail, the elastic rocketing off his head and falling behind the couch, lost forever. Hair falling into his eyes, Sokka reels back from Aang and Katara. “It’s not like I went <em>looking </em>for the interview, you know. Yue contacted <em>me; </em>she offered me the job, but I was just interviewing to see what would happen.”</p><p>“And that’s awesome, Sokka; that speaks really highly to how much they like your editing and the podcast,” Aang replies, trying to soften his voice and make himself smaller. He watches Sokka stiffen, his eyes narrowing, and he immediately straightens to his full height, towering over Sokka by a good four inches. Sokka’s griped about Aang using his therapist voice on him, and Aang knows it’ll only make the situation tenser if he tries it. He begins again: “I mean, obviously they want to hire you because you’re crazy talented and the best damn podcast editor to ever bless Spotify.”</p><p>  “Honestly, it’s dumb they’ve taken so long to reach out to you,” Katara admits.</p><p>Aang steals a glance at her; the heat of her outburst may be intense and immediate, but it rarely lasts. Though hardness still dulls her words, delivering each with enough blunt force to strike the cranium, she’s no longer likely to chuck a lamp at Sokka’s head.</p><p>She continues: “But it’s also dumb you didn’t just tell us. Did you not trust us? Did you think we’d freak out?”</p><p>“You? Freak out? <em>Never</em>,” Sokka quips back, scowling.</p><p>Aang knows it’s a weak evasion, and they’re edging close to the heart of the matter. All it will take to get Sokka to open up is a few well-placed encouragements. Holding his hands out placatingly, Aang relents: “Okay, fair; we’re sorry.” Sokka stares at him hard, his ice-chip eyes darting between him and Katara. Sighing, Aang turns to find Katara’s blue eyes just as frigid. Aiming a gentle elbow at her ribs, he prompts, “<em>Right,</em> Katara? We’re sorry.”</p><p>Huffing out a sigh, she admits, “Yeah. Okay. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“That was convincing,” Sokka grouses.</p><p>Katara’s sarcastic laugh cracks through the apartment. “At least I’m actually trying, <em>Sok-ka.” </em>Aang cringes; it’s never a good sign when Katara makes her brother’s name into two words. “You’re dodging every question because apparently you don’t trust us enough to tell us about important life decisions, even though we literally live together! Even though you see Aang almost every day! Even though we’re your—”</p><p>“It’s because no will care if I go!” Sokka cuts in, shouting over her. It’s the only way to get a word in with Katara when she’s on one of her rants. Aang eyes Sokka’s fingers, balled tight at his sides, as if he wants to throw a punch or maybe just dig his fingernails into his skin for a modicum of pain or distraction. Maybe just to <em>feel, </em>period. “It’s not that I wasn’t going to accept the job, it’s that I don’t want to go because I don’t want…I don’t want it to be further proof that neither of you really need me.”</p><p>Katara gapes.</p><p>Aang blinks. He’s the first to recover enough to say: <em>“What?”</em></p><p>“Aang, you like doing the podcast and I know you like hanging out, but you don’t <em>need </em>it like I do; you have your job, you’re helping kids get over trauma and it’s really important, cool work. But, you feel fulfilled and like your own person, with or without me,” Sokka begins, his attention latched on Aang. It snaps to Katara: “And I’m dragging you down, Kat, let’s face it; I’m a horrible roommate and I’ve spilled coffee on your grading and you’re constantly on the verge of an aneurism because I’m disgusting. I <em>know </em>you both love me, but you don’t need me, and that’s okay but it really hurts sometimes. It’s no one’s fault, but I’m not an essential part of your life. I didn’t want to tell you about the interview and have it confirmed that you’d be okay if I moved across the fucking country. You’d get on with your lives just fine without me, no Sokka-sized hole or anything.”</p><p>“Sokka, that’s not true—” Katara begins in the same instant Aang exclaims: “What are you talking about, Sokka? You’re <em>so</em> essential—”</p><p>But Sokka doesn’t wait to hear it. He leaves the apartment, hobbling as fast as his crutches will allow, and slamming the door on their protests. Appa woofs. In the resounding silence, Appa settling and the stillness seeming to carve out a pocket separate from reality, Aang and Katara are left blinking at each other.</p>
<hr/><p>[Text conversation retrieved from Sokka Imiq’s phone]</p><p>6:09 PM Monday, March 31<sup>st</sup></p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Hey :) Sorry for running off on you earlier. I went to meet up with my sister and uncle</p><p><strong>Sokka</strong>: No problem. What’s going on?</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Azula (sister) went back to Texas (home) to see about damage control. We’re thinking the worst is still to come</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I’m really sorry; is there anything you can do?</p><p><strong>Zuko</strong>: Well, I need to see about withdrawing the FDA forms, but besides that, I’m kind of just…stuck</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I know the feeling</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>What do you mean?</p><p>6:30 PM</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Sokka? Are you okay?</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Pls reply when you can. I’m worried</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Are you alright?</p><p>6:43 PM</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Sorry, phone died. I had to find a Starbucks to charge my phone</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Why can’t you charge it at home??</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Kind of had a fight with my sister and Aang? Sort of?</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Like, what do you qualify as a sibling-fight??</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Well, was there yelling, crying, things being thrown, or generally things said you’ll regret later?</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Yes, no, no, and yes</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Then it was a fight</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Why didn’t you tell me?</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Because you have other things going on besides my dumb drama</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>But you put up with my dumb drama, so why wouldn’t I put up with yours?</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Your drama isn’t dumb!!</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong> Doesn’t mean you don’t put up with it!</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Whoa, check out those double negatives</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Don’t try to distract me</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>You were there for me when I needed it, and I want to be there for you. Please stop sitting on the floor of a gross Starbucks and come over. We can order Thai</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>How did you know I was on the floor?</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Because when is there ever a chair open next to a power outlet at Starbucks??</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Fair.</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>So are you coming?</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I seriously don’t want to put more on you. You’ve had a shitty day already without me adding my mess on top of it</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Listen, you don’t have to tell me what’s going on if you don’t want to, but my day will be made shittier if you don’t come over because I’ll just be worried about you</p><p><strong>Sokka:</strong>…I see what you did there, playing dirty, and I call foul</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Yeah, call me a rule breaker lol</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Okay, fine. What’s your address?</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>[sent an attachment]</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>And send me your Thai order!</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Okay :)</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>And Zuko?</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Yeah?</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Thank you</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Because we're getting near(ish) the end of this fic and I value y'alls opinions, let me know if any of these premises pique your interest:</p><p>-"my date with the president's (grand)daughter:" Kai is the newest intern on the senior staff for Aang's administration: just a tiny cog in the president's office as they confront the daily headaches of running Republic City. And, yeah, Kai shouldn't have clicked through the introduction powerpoint; perhaps he wouldn't have mistaken the president's granddaughter as a fellow lowly intern. Because, maybe he wouldn't have humiliated himself, but then, Kai's very good at humiliating himself (modern!LoK/AtLA, with some West Wing vibes, i.e. the fantasy au where politicians are actually decent people).</p><p>-"even after all this time": After the dead are buried, old wounds are healed, and construction replaces war-torn towns, a global sense of public fascination arises over the Last Waterbender of the Southern Watertribe's six-year estrangement from the Avatar. Or, Katara and Aang have matured into adults independent of each other but the world conspires to get them back together, as told by nosy interlopers (canon!AtLA)</p><p>-some "i (want to) believe" one-shots? Probably depends on how irate (or not) y'all are over where this fic ends up ha</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Warning: fluff add, precede with caution. Your teeth might rot out with sweetness</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My thanks to @cinnamoncookies for her beta'ing and comments/reactions, as always!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zuko’s coffee table is a wasteland of empty take-out containers, chopsticks sticking out like banners of fallen battalions, and used napkins balled tight like forgotten landmines. Zuko and Sokka rest their heads on either end of the couch, their legs tangling together into a nest for Druk to wedge himself. Over the faint snores of a sleeping dog and the television playing <em>The Devil Wears Prada</em> on low volume, Sokka says, “So, what are the no-fly topics?”</p><p>“Huh?” Zuko replies, tearing his eyes from watching Anne Hathaway be made over by Stanley Tucci.</p><p>“I’m asking if there are things you don’t want to talk about, before I ask about, like, what’s the deal with your sister or the family company going to shit?” Sokka asks, his smile pulling wide as he wiggles his toes into Zuko’s ribcage and he’s rewarded with a fleeting smile.</p><p>“Alright, stop,” Zuko mumbles tinged with barely repressed amusement, pushing away Sokka’s feet halfheartedly.</p><p>Sokka lets him, fixing his smile on Zuko and waiting patiently. He knows it’s hypocritical trying to bait Zuko into talking about his feelings over the cataclysmic turn his life’s taken—especially since he dodged all attempts Zuko made to bring up why he was huddled on the sticky floor of a Starbucks—and he knows it’s probably his way of apologizing for the kiss<em>. </em>Because words are hard, and it’s easier to be there for Zuko; it’s easier to tease out his smiles or listen to him talk about anything in the world. To feel close to Zuko, feel <em>needed </em>(if only for a little bit), and <em>I’m putting this on him because it’s the support I need that’s missing with Aang and Katara.</em></p><p>His stomach feels like it’s going to fold in on itself, and Sokka shoves the thought aside. Not now; he’ll deal with it later.</p><p>“No,” Zuko says after a moment, his breathy chuckles quietening. He sits up to rub at Druk’s ears and <em>wow, he must have some great abdominal strength, </em>Sokka can’t keep from flitting through his mind. Zuko continues: “No, we can talk about it. The thing with my sister is our father always compared us to each other. He made Azula hypercompetitive, and kind of a manic perfectionist…”</p><p>“Damn, he sounds like the universe’s worst dad; like Thanos, step aside,” Sokka observes and Zuko blinks at him. Sokka can <em>see </em>the Marvel reference flying over Zuko’s head.</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“Never mind, we’ll talk about it later; it’s an MCU reference.”</p><p>Zuko’s stare turns even more owlish. “MCU?”</p><p>“Marvel Cinematic Universe, we’re definitely marathoning every single movie really soon,” Sokka promises. Zuko nods, smiling and blissfully unaware he’s signed himself up for a twenty-three-movie slog. “But continue, sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t apologize,” Zuko replies and Sokka’s eyebrows climb, wondering if it’s a reference to Sokka telling (<em>yelling at) </em>Zuko to stop apologizing on the beach earlier today. Because, somehow, that was earlier today and not a lifetime ago. Yet, before Sokka can ask, Zuko adds, “But I haven’t really seen Azula a lot since she went to boarding school out in Connecticut for high school. An all-girls school, where she realized she’s gay. Of course, I found out all of this through Cousin Lu Ten. It’s funny, he’s been in Hong Kong for fifteen years, but he’s still the person we’re closest to in the family.” Zuko pauses, amending, “Well <em>second </em>closest person for me; I tell everything to Uncle.”</p><p>Sokka knows its egocentric to have a strong urge to ask if Uncle’s heard about him. He itches to know how Zuko describes him or—even worse—if he’s not even described him at all.</p><p>“Anyway, so Azula went to Oxford, which is kind of a tradition on my mom’s side of the family,” Zuko continues. “And she got her first girlfriend there. I was there when Dad found out and it was…not pretty. He threatened to disown her unless she started dating a boy he picked out for her.”</p><p>“Wow, this is straight out of Downton Abbey; arranged marriages to keep the family from having ‘wrong’ connections, or whatever.”</p><p>Zuko leans against the couch’s back, and Sokka tries not to think too much about how it’d be easy to sit up, too; to wrap his arms around Zuko’s shoulders and tangle his fingers in his hair, <em>and</em>—Zuko’s talking: “I really want to unpack the fact that you apparently watch Downton Abbey.”</p><p>Sokka shrugs, trying to pretend he isn’t blushing from undressing Zuko in his imagination. “It’s engaging storytelling. Not saying it’s ‘good’ storytelling, of course, but damn, can Maggie Smith deliver a fucking scorching one-liner.” Zuko <em>laughs, </em>he actually <em>laughs, </em>and Sokka wishes he could record it to keep forever. Smile wide and goofy, knowing he looks far too pleased with himself, Sokka prompts, “So what happened? Did your sister date this dad-approved dude?”</p><p>“<em>Dudes,” </em>Zuko corrected. “Two of them, plural. And I guess it’s one of the many things that all compounded and made Azula realize Father is a manipulative bastard. I never thought it’d happen, but she’s turned against him. She’s not exactly <em>nice, </em>because she’s Azula, but I can actually believe that we could be friends.”</p><p>Sokka nods, trying to fathom never being friends with his sister (though maybe he can imagine it right now). After a pause, he asks, “And what about you? Did your dad do something similar to you when he found you were gay?”</p><p>“Oh, uh,” Zuko croaks, ducking his head. Pink stains his face, blotching his cheeks, and Sokka loves when Zuko blushes. Loves how it takes years off of him; how it contrasts marvelously with his golden eyes. Zuko chews at his lower lip. Sokka understands all at once.</p><p>“He doesn’t know, does he?”</p><p>A sigh of hot breath. Zuko shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry.”</p><p>Now, Sokka sits up, unable to stand being so far from Zuko. Brushing a thumb over Zuko’s cheekbone, resting at his jaw to cradle his face, Sokka says, “Hey, we got to stop apologizing to each other every time we have an emotion. Why are you saying ‘sorry’ to me? I don’t expect you to come out to your evil dad just because I like—<em>erk</em>.” Sokka barely manages to swallow back the confession (a very inappropriately timed confession, no less). It takes a moment for his brain to recalibrate. He tries again: “Coming out and being proud about it is an awesome feeling, don’t get me wrong. I mean, becoming the world’s foremost bi icon was pretty spectacular.” Zuko manages his signature small smile while still looking miserable. “But everyone has different journeys. Most people’s journeys don’t include dads that run giant corporations that try to ruin their sons’ careers with falsifying fucking science.”</p><p>Zuko hiccups out a chuckle. It’s suspiciously close to a sob. He leans his cheek into Sokka’s hand, allowing his eyes to flutter closed. “And most people don’t suddenly have redeemed sisters or missing mothers.”</p><p>“Yeah, that,” Sokka agrees. “And that’s another thing. Are we going to talk about your mom missing?”</p><p>Zuko hesitates. Sokka’s about to apologize, to assure Zuko he doesn’t need to talk about it if it stings too much, but then admits: “Azula thinks she’s the whistleblower and that’s why she vanished. She might be in a witness protection program, or something, but we heard from Cousin Lu Ten that she changed her will before she left. She planned for this, and…and if she was the whistleblower, then she’s abandoned us.”</p><p>Though it’s left unsaid, Sokka senses Zuko wants to tack on ‘<em>again.’ </em></p><p>Goosebumps flood Sokka’s arms, the small hairs standing at the nape of his neck, and he breaths past the sudden anger swelling in his chest. His mother abandoned him <em>again? </em>What kind of parent does that? Sokka knows he shouldn’t be surprised; not with the information and character sketch he’s gathered about Zuko’s dad. It stands to reason his mother is a trash-human, too. Sokka knows he’s biased from his own life: his mother didn’t ask to die in a car accident, his father didn’t ask to be deployed for the majority of Sokka’s childhood (well, he <em>did</em> enlist in the Navy, so he kind of did choose, but that’s technicalities), and Gran-Gran was as an unshakable source of love and advice and guidance. Sokka never once doubted his parents (or parental figures) loved him; never once thought them capable of knowingly hurting him or Katara.</p><p>And for one brief second, manifesting before his eyes, Zuko no longer appears as his twenty-eight-year-old self. Sokka sees him as a scared little boy, a broken teenager, and fire thrums in Sokka’s veins to protect Zuko from his past; to shield him from the family drama trying to rip him apart in the present. Leaning forward, their noses almost bumping, Sokka asks, “What can I do, Zuko? How can I help you?”</p><p>Zuko shrugs. For a moment, it’s the only reply he can offer. Then, he closes the gap between them, pressing his forehead against Sokka’s. “I don’t know. Just being here with me right now is enough…and…and…”</p><p>“Don’t be afraid to ask.”</p><p>“And can you help me find my mother?”</p><p>Sokka doesn’t hesitate. He promises, “Of course. Anything for you.”</p><hr/><p>“You know,” Katara says, breaking a silence that felt as though it would stretch into infinity. “I think some of Sokka’s stinky socks are still in the laundry basket, maybe if Appa sniffed one—?”</p><p>Aang cast her a dry look. With his coat’s hood up and his beanie on, it takes a full-body rotation to glower. “Appa isn’t a bloodhound.”</p><p>“Well, it was just a suggestion,” Katara grumbles.</p><p>Aang sighs as they amble along, the Jasmine Dragon two blocks to their backs. “I know, I’m sorry. I think the cold is just getting to me.” He reaches a gloved hand down to rub Appa’s ears, assuring him it’s okay he’s a Pyrenees and not a bloodhound.</p><p>After the initial shock, a dragging two minutes where Aang and Katara stared at each other and listened to Sokka’s thumping footsteps hobble out of the apartment building, they gathered themselves in a mad rush. Coats, boots, scarves, and gloves were blindly grabbed for, Appa’s leash clipped on, and they went dashing after Sokka. Yet, there was no sign of him on the sidewalk outside, nor at any of his usual haunts. And they checked. The only other place Aang could think of where Sokka might be was the Jasmine Dragon, though it was long past closing time. Aang hoped Uncle Iroh had shepherded Sokka in for a cup of tea and some advice, but Uncle hadn’t seen him all day. Zuko seemed the last option for who Sokka might crash with, but neither Aang nor Katara had his number.</p><p>“And I’m sorry, too,” Katara replies. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.” Aang knows better than to agree. He keeps quiet, and Katara continues, “I know I need to work on my temper. I mean, at least I don’t yell at my students.”</p><p>“That’s a plus,” Aang agrees. He’s run into Katara’s high school students as they’ve been out together, and he’s seen their fawning in action. They adore her, especially the girls she coaches on the swim team. One particular run-in floats to the front of his memory: Katara dragged him along to go dress shopping for an end-of-the-year banquet, where she was being honored by the district. She needed his ‘eye for aesthetics.’ As Katara emerged from her fitting room in a dress that, frankly, should be illegal, a gaggle of teenage girls shuffled in. It soon became apparent they were some of her swim girls: they immediately exclaimed over how ‘you’re super-hot in that dress, Ms. Imiq!’ before turning on Aang, her presumed boyfriend, and cajoling him into agreeing. </p><p>Of course, she <em>did</em> look super-hot. And, of course, Aang took an inordinate amount of happiness from being mistaken for Katara’s boyfriend. As if it wasn’t such an outlandish concept; as if it might manifest in his future.</p><p><em>But, stay focused, Aang, </em>he mentally scolds himself now.</p><p>“And it’s different if you yell at family. Like, it’s kind of expected and more easily forgiven,” Aang offers as they hang a right and continue onto a new street.</p><p>Katara nods. “Do you and Sokka ever yell at each other?”</p><p> Aang frowns. “No, of course not.”</p><p>“Well, I mean, you’re pretty much brothers,” Katara mumbles, and Aang hopes the next logical step isn’t that he and Katara are essentially siblings, too. She continues: “But neither of you have a temper like mine, you know? I’m always the one flying off the handle and losing my shit over the smallest of things.”</p><p>“Katara—” Aang begins.</p><p>She shakes her head, curls escaping from beneath her wool cap, tendrils fluttering against her cheek. “No, Aang. Don’t try to make me feel better or whatever. I know it’s what you’re good at, but I really need to beat myself up, okay? I mean, I just saw red—I guess I always do when it comes to Sokka. Or, at least the thought of him leaving us behind. It’s always been you, me, and Sokka, right? But now I’m just worried about him and it’s all my fault.”</p><p>Aang chews at his cheek, staring down at the darkened sidewalk and the swish of Appa’s tail as they patter along. They travel nearly half the block before Aang gathers his thoughts enough to speak, to trust himself to try for tentative comfort without setting off her temper again. “Kat, you know no one’s leaving you behind; not me or Sokka, right?”</p><p>“Yeah, I know,” Katara replies quietly, voice nearly lost under the soundtrack of Chicago settling into night: the rumble of late evening traffic, the chatter of bare tree branches knocking together, people returning from the day burdened with groceries and stress. But Aang’s unaware of all of it, busy stealing glances as Katara nibbles at her lip and her fingers twist together. “I guess it’s just a knee-jerk reaction. After my mom…um…” even after fourteen years, neither Katara nor Sokka can bring themselves to talk openly about the accident that took their mom “…And, and Dad gone for months on active duty, it just feels like I have to protect myself from being forgotten or abandoned.”</p><p>“But that’s what Sokka’s saying, too, right?” Aang replies gently. They pause, allowing Appa to sniff a planter spilling with long-dead plants. When they set off again, Aang adds, “We both know that Sokka is the one who both our lives revolve around. He brightens our days, glues our friendships together, but he doesn’t know that, obviously. He doesn’t realize how awesome he is, just like you don’t because you’re both afraid of something that simply won’t happen. We won’t <em>let </em>it happen.”</p><p>Katara nods slowly and it’s only because Aang’s monitoring her expression so attentively that he notices how her breath shudders, her eyelids slam shut. Her steps shuffle, slowing to a step. She exhales a choppy breath. “Oh my—oh, <em>shit</em>. <em>Aang</em>.” Her gloved hand finds his. “I’m so sorry, I’m being an insensitive asshole again. I’m crying to you about my problems, and not being sensitive to the fact that, well…” She bites her lip, regret making her eyes swim.</p><p>Aang shrugs, following her logic. “That I was abandoned by my birth parents?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, it was really stupid of me to bring it up; I was being so self-absorbed and I wasn’t considering who I was talking to,” Katara blurts, trying to snatch back her hand as if her touch might physically pain him.</p><p>He tightens his grip on her fingers, fixing her with an easy smile. It’s the smile he uses on his anxious patients, on their even more anxious parents, and it works magic on Katara. A marginal amount of tension eases from her face. “Don’t worry about it,” Aang assures. “My trauma doesn’t invalidate your trauma or feelings. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you to talk about it. Like, it’s literally a fact of my life; you don’t have to worry about mentioning it. I don’t remember anything before being adopted by Gyatso, and I’ve worked through my lingering fear of being left behind. I mean, cancer kind of puts everything into perspective.”</p><p>Katara laughs weakly, though Aang doesn’t miss her awkward shift. He knows she’s uncomfortable with his cancer-based humor. He bumps her shoulder with his, saying, “And you realize your problems are my problems, right?”</p><p>Standing so close, she has to tilt her chin to meet his eyes. Though it’s been seven years since Aang’s height surged past Katara—his growth-spurt made him look like a reedy, roving skyscraper at six-foot-three in high school—sometimes he’s taken aback by how small she is, how slight and (especially now) vulnerable. Her face is made a quilt of shadow and light by the streetlight overhead. She tries for a smile; it’s a weak and pathetic thing, but Aang counts it as a win. “I know, I…thank you.”</p><p>And Aang <em>knows</em> she doesn’t think of him that way—she all but called him her brother a few seconds ago—but he’s moving before he can think better of it. His arms encircle her shoulders, pulling her against his chest. For one heart-thumping, breath-snatching second when he’s sure all the oxygen in the world has disappeared, he’s sure she won’t reciprocate. But then, her gloved fingers bury into his coat-front, and she burrows her nose into the crook of his neck. She lets him hold her as if she’d wanted to be held for quite some time.</p><p>(<em>But that’s just your imagination, Aang, </em>his inner dialogue shouts, an inner dialogue he switches to mute. Even if it’s a hug Katara means as ‘thanks for being my friend’, it means everything to Aang.)</p><p>(Only when they finally shuffle back into the Imiq siblings’ apartment does Aang have a stroke of genius: text Toph and ask for Zuko’s phone number. She replies quickly, with a snappy: ‘Why? Has Sparky kidnapped Snoozles?’ Aang and Katara can only guess at decrypting her nicknames.)</p><hr/><p>At one o’clock in the morning, Zuko regretfully untangles himself from Sokka. Stretching, disguising a yawn, he whispers in respect for lateness: “Do you want to head to bed? I got the guest room ready for you.”</p><p>Sokka blinks passed blurry, heavy lids. His smile is slowed by drowsiness, but it eventually pulls across his face big and bright.<em> I’d die happy if I could just see that smile every day, </em>Zuko thinks, perhaps a little slappy-happy from fatigue.</p><p>Standing, too, beginning to heap his arms with trash to shuttle to the kitchen, Sokka whispers back, “Yeah, thanks. I’d really appreciate it.”</p><p>“Do you want me to grab you a tee-shirt to sleep in?” Zuko asks, careful not to look at Sokka directly. Something about the thought of Sokka in one of his old tee-shirts and nothing else sends heat searing across his face, like he wants to crawl out of his own skin, and he knows looking directly at Sokka will exacerbate it.</p><p>“If you don’t mind, that’d be great—” Sokka begins, but Zuko’s already scuttling down the hall and ducking into his bedroom. It takes a few moments of rustling in a drawer to fish out his stack of old tee-shirts. He’s been meaning to get rid of them—all too worn to be workout tee-shirts, but all too charged with sentimentality to go into a donation bag—but he blesses his past laziness now. He sorts through the pile, looking for one that won’t be too embarrassing and—he freezes. Air catches in his throat.</p><p>In his hands, his fingers going numb, he holds a black tee-shirt, holes worn in at the collar and armpit. He bought the shirt from <em>Cryptid: Decoded</em>’s first merchandise line, back when the podcast was in its infancy. The image of the ghost at the center is nearly faded, yet the white lettering advertising the podcast is still legible.</p><p>Sokka’s voice precedes him down the hall, setting Zuko’s muscles afire and blood pounding in his ears. “Hey,” Sokka says, as Zuko casts wildly around, shot-putting the shirt into his laundry hamper an instant before Sokka appears in the doorway. “I recycled as much as I could.”</p><p>“Oh, um, great! Thanks so much,” Zuko replies, breathlessly. He wants to disappear on the spot, with Sokka’s eyes boring into him. One eyebrow raises in question.</p><p>“Yeah, no problem?” Sokka replies before leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. “What’s up? You know, you can tell me if I’ve over-stayed my welcome. Like, if you’re uncomfortable with me being here, just let me know and I’ll—”</p><p>“No, no,” Zuko hurriedly assures, the momentum of how much he <em>desperately </em>doesn’t want that carrying him forward two steps. He won’t allow his own cowardice at telling Sokka the truth about listening to the podcast to keep Sokka from staying. Zuko wants to be <em>there </em>for him and, selfishly, he wants an opportunity to ask what the hell the deal was with the kiss (and if there’s a potential for more kisses to come). Feeling like he’s choking on air, Zuko blurts, “No I want you to stay. You’re, um, you’re really welcome.”</p><p>And Zuko <em>knows </em>it’s not his imagination when Sokka’s cheeks pink.</p><p>Sokka pushes off from the doorjamb, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Oh, um, good, because I want to be here.”</p><p>“Um,” Zuko offers. Why did he let things get awkward? And how did they become so awkward so quickly? Chewing on his lower lip, Zuko casts around for something else to say. His eyes land on the stack of tee-shirts. He grabs wildly for the top one. “Here: the promised P.J. shirt.”</p><p>Sokka blinks down at it. Zuko knows he’s properly blushing now. The tee-shirt reads ‘Surely not <em>everyone</em> was Kung Fu fighting’ and Zuko bleats, embarrassed. “Oh, uh, Toph got it for me as a ‘thank you’ for being a guest teacher. I help her with her Saturday morning Kung Fu lessons sometimes.” He tries to snatch it back. “I can get you another one?”</p><p>“No, I like this one,” Sokka replies, hold tightening to the tee-shirt, before fixing Zuko with another bright smile like he’s completely unaware how it makes Zuko’s knees quiver, how it makes his overactive imaginative replay the kiss until Zuko can <em>feel</em> the phantom of Sokka’s mouth. A yawning canyon of want opens in his chest, yearning for another kiss: to lean forward and bridge the gap between his mouth and Sokka’s. He aches to capture his mouth and kiss him until they stumble backward and land on his bed. Until they wriggled out of their clothes and—</p><p>“Zuko?”</p><p>Zuko’s grunt is barely human. Ducking his head and clearing his throat, he tries again: “Sorry, I mean, yeah?”</p><p>“Thanks for letting me crash here. I really appreciate. I know I should deal with my sister, but facing her tonight seemed like…” Sokka trails off, shrugging as if it’s the most eloquent he can be right then.</p><p>Scolding himself for indulging in fantasies about ravishing Sokka (<em>don’t think about him in only that tee-shirt, don’t think about him—</em>nope, too late, he’s thinking about it) instead of focusing on sincerity, Zuko assures. “Yeah, of course. I’m really happy that you’d let me take care of you. Not that I’m happy that you got into a fight, of course not, it’s just that—”</p><p>Sokka stops Zuko’s rambling mouth with his own.</p><p>Unlike the kiss on the beach, backed by Sokka’s anger, this kiss doesn’t blaze with scorching heat; this kiss is all closed-mouth and puckered lips, sweet from peanut-sauce and lime. It ends before Zuko can even begin to kiss him back.</p><p>Sokka steps hurriedly back, red staining his cheeks. The whites of his eyes trace entirely around his blue irises, panic widening them, and Sokka splutters, “Sorry, I apparently have zero self-restraint. I shouldn’t have done that. That’s the second time I’ve kissed you without asking and it’s really not cool—I mean, I kissed you when you were all emotionally fragile and—”</p><p>Zuko lunges, his hand going to slide up Sokka’s neck. His fingers tangling in his hair. Their mouths crash together, Sokka’s hands falling to Zuko’s hips, steadying them while pulling him close. The tee-shirt falls to the carpet, forgotten, as Zuko guides Sokka’s lips to slot against his, and for a second, Zuko thinks: <em>I’ve never kissed someone taller than me. </em>Then all thoughts are chased away, Sokka’s tongue pressing urgently against his mouth and Zuko submits to the kiss entirely.</p><p>It could’ve been an act of devotion, a full profession of faith to a religion, with how overwhelmed Zuko is by the kiss, by Sokka, by every fantasy he’s indulged in springing to vivid reality. Zuko’s head spins, but he still leans in for more, still presses back with a feverish need and urgency. He kisses with the blind belief and piety of the faithful finally finding true enlightenment—finally <em>truly </em>living—for the first time. Because Zuko knows he simply <em>existed</em> until Sokka kissed him, and its only now he realizes what truly living feels like.</p><p>It’s only now he realizes he’s hopelessly lost, hopelessly gone, hopelessly in love with Sokka.</p><p>Zuko pulls back first, trailing kisses at the corner of Sokka’s lips, his jawline, his ear. “Unless I tell you otherwise, I think it’s safe to assume I always want to be kissed by you.”</p><p>Somehow, and neither of them really know how, they manage to say goodnight to each other sometime later. It’s agonizing to retreat to their respective rooms knowing the other is so near, but somehow, they go. Neither Sokka nor Zuko fall asleep for hours, too busy replaying the kiss.</p><hr/><p>Zuko clicks on his light, squinting at his bedside clock.</p><p>Four in the morning.</p><p>He groans, flopping onto his back. His nerves feel charged by lightning, his brain churns like a storm-swept sea, and he gives up on pretending to sleep. He blindly feels for his phone at his bedside in a desperate bid for distraction.</p><p>He can’t tell if he’s slept and dreamed of Sokka or laid awake and dreamed of Sokka. He needs something else to think about. Blinking against the harsh light of his phone screen, Zuko frowns. There are messages from Toph and two unknown numbers.</p><p>11:32 PM, Monday March 31</p><p><strong>Toph: </strong>Hey Sparky, I gave your number to Aang and Katara. They’re worried about annoying-voice-guy and I thought you might know something about it</p><p>Zuko rolls his eyes, opening the group text from the two unknown numbers.</p><p>11:43 PM</p><p><strong>Unknown number: </strong>Hi Zuko, this is Aang! Sokka’s gone missing after a fight we got into with him. If you know where he is, could you let us know? We’re really worried.</p><p><strong>Unknown number: </strong>And if you do see him or hear from him, could you tell him I’m sorry? This is Katara, by the way.</p><p>Zuko adds them in as contacts to his phone, before nibbling at his lip. He glances at the clock again: 4:08 AM. Almost five hours since they texted. Guilt wells in his stomach; if he’d checked his phone earlier, instead of acting like a lovesick fool cuddling with Sokka on the couch or kissing him or drooling over the memory of kissing him, he could’ve texted back. Katara and Aang have probably worked themselves into knots with worry, and ghosting isn’t the best way of endearing himself to the people most important in his boyfriend/love interest/friend’s (is it too soon to define what Sokka is to him?) life.</p><p>Gnawing at his lip, Zuko composes a reply.</p><hr/><p>The bright chirrup of an incoming text interrupts Aang mid-snore, jostling him awake. From the dark outlines of the apartment’s living room around him, he’s apparently fallen asleep on Katara and Sokka’s couch. Vaguely aware of a weight on his chest, he tries his best not to shift while also patting around his phone. He knows he left it <em>somewhere </em>on the coffee table, but where—?</p><p><em>There! </em>His fingertips brush against it.</p><p>Through half-opened eyes, he reads the new notification in the group chat between himself, Zuko, and Katara.</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Hey Aang and Katara. I’m really, really sorry for the late reply, but yes, Sokka’s been here. He’s staying in my guest room and he’s safe. Please don’t worry. I’ll try to get him to call you in the morning.</p><p>Aang gusts out a sigh, closing his eyes as relief settles over him. He allows himself to linger there before wrenching his eyelids open again. He taps out a reply:</p><p><strong>Aang: </strong>Thanks for letting us know, Zuko. And thanks for taking care of him. Have a good night</p><p>Aang locks his phone and drops it on the carpet. The weight on his chest shifts and he feels fingers curl into the soft fabric of his tee-shirt. Then, a mumbled question: “Was that Zuko?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Aang replies, resting his hand on Katara’s waist as she snuggles her cheek against his chest. Her hair tickles his nose. “Yeah, he replied. Sokka’s with him and he’s safe. Zuko said he’ll try to get Sokka to call in the morning.”</p><p>“Oh,” Katara sighs, and Aang hears his relief echoed in that single word. “Will you be there when I talk to him? I need you to keep me from blowing up; I don’t want to mess up again.”</p><p>Though it’s something a boyfriend would do, not a friend and certainly not a brother, Aang rests one hand on the back of her head while the other rubs soothing circles into her back. “Don’t worry about it now. Go back to sleep. I’ll be here in the morning, and we’ll figure it all out then.”</p><hr/><p>Sokka emerges from the guest bedroom with Druk at his heels. The little traitor spent the night at the foot of Sokka’s bed. Zuko can’t really blame him; he wished he could’ve slept curled at Sokka’s side, too.</p><p>Making a show of sniffing at the air, Sokka asks around a yawn, “Is that coffee and toast I smell?”</p><p>Zuko tosses a smile over his shoulder as Sokka slides onto one of the stools at the kitchen island. “Yeah, and I’m about to make eggs. Want some?” He holds his hand a few inches above the pan, feeling if it’s hot enough yet. He rarely makes breakfast—usually counting an extra strong tumbler of coffee as a meal—but after a restless night, he decided he was awake enough to cook. That, and he’s eager to impress Sokka. He forged around in his kitchen for ingredients, and surprised himself with finding bread, butter, jelly, and eggs.</p><p>“Yes, please,” Sokka replies as Zuko slides him a plate stacked with buttered toast. He piles a clean plate before going to retrieve mugs and pour coffee. “Want some?”</p><p>"Of course.” Zuko accepts the filled mug with a shy smile. It’s all so domestic, so mundane: waking up to have breakfast with a significant other (not that Sokka is his significant other…<em>yet, </em>Zuko can’t help tacking on). It’s more than Zuko would’ve ever dared to dream.</p><p>Sokka returns to his stool, taking tentative sips of the piping hot coffee, silently watching Zuko crack eggs over the finally deemed hot enough pan. Zuko catalogues the information: Sokka drinks his coffee black, like him, and doesn’t particularly want to talk in the morning. It’s perhaps the only time of day Sokka isn’t chatty. Each tidbit feels precious, for Zuko’s knowledge alone, and he’s reminded of having a creepy amount of insight into Sokka’s life because of the podcast. It had felt intrusive and wrong. Yet, now, he has insight into Sokka’s life because he’s <em>in </em>Sokka’s life; because they eat Thai food together, and listen to each other, and exchanged charged kisses that have to mean <em>something </em>(right?).</p><p>Zuko starts humming as he tends the eggs.</p><p>“Mind if I ask what’s got you in such a good mood?” Sokka asks, still cradling his coffee close.</p><p>Zuko aims for a nonchalant shrug but fails. He’s feeling <em>very </em>chalant. “Oh, nothing. Just you. Being here. It’s nice.”</p><p>Sokka blinks, apparently unsure what to make of that for a second. Or, perhaps his brain isn’t fully awake yet. Then, a crooked grin. “It <em>is </em>nice, isn’t it?”</p><p>“I mean, the circumstances behind you being here aren’t nice, but the actual part of you being here is,” Zuko corrects, clicking off the electric stove and using his spatula to slide the fried eggs onto two plates. He can’t help frowning then, the late-night texts from Aang and Katara swimming to the forefront of his memory. Setting aside the pan to cool before washing, Zuko shuttles the eggs to the kitchen island. He slides one plate to Sokka. As Zuko settles on a stool, Sokka offers his thanks.</p><p>Zuko begins eloquently: “So, um.”</p><p>Pausing in the middle of cutting open his fried egg with the side of his fork, letting the yolk run into his toast, Sokka echoes, “‘So um?’ What’s up?”</p><p>“Uh, well.” Zuko tears off a piece of toast and stacks a bit of egg on top. “Aang and Katara texted me last night. They’re really worried about you.” When Sokka doesn’t reply immediately, only nodding, Zuko continues, “Katara’s hoping you’ll call this morning. I think she wants to apologize.”</p><p>One of Sokka’s shoulder raises, then the other. “I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive her yet, even though I don’t think I was ever really mad at her to begin with.”</p><p>Zuko’s eyebrows inch together. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well, the fight…” He trails off, eyes drifting back down to his plate. He sops up some of the lake of egg yolk with toast before taking a bite. After swallowing it down with coffee, he explains: “The fight was over an interview with <em>Ember.” </em></p><p>“The website? With all the commentary on horror and supernatural video games and stuff?” Zuko clarifies. He only knows about it because Sokka’s mentioned it on the podcast.</p><p>It isn’t until Sokka frowns, eyeing him, that Zuko realizes it is odd for a socially awkward doctor to know about something like <em>Ember. </em>Yet, thankfully, Sokka doesn’t press the point. Instead, he continues, “Yeah. Them. One of the co-founders reached out to me asking for a job interview. I didn’t pursue them at all, I’ve been really happy running my…err, running my editing gigs. I was more interviewing just to see what would happen, but Katara and Aang found out and they flipped. Well, Aang didn’t because Aang doesn’t know the definition of ‘flipping out,’ but Katara’s got it covered for both of them.”</p><p>“Wait, I don’t get it, why did they flip out?”</p><p>“Um, well.” Sokka stares hard down at his food as if admitting this directly to Zuko’s face would be unthinkable. “The job is in New York City, so I’d have to move away from Aang and Katara and, um…” His eyes dart up to Zuko before zipping away just as quickly.</p><p>Yet Zuko hears what Sokka refuses to say: <em>he’d have to move away from me. </em>And though the selfish corner of his mind rages and roars at him, Zuko ignores it and says, “But if it’s a good opportunity, then they should be happy for you. If they’re not, then they’re literally trying to hold you back and stifle your career. If you want to go, then you should go. You <em>deserve </em>to go.” Zuko bites off an explanation about <em>why </em>he knows Sokka’s so deserving; how he’s listened to every podcast episode, hearing Sokka’s editing talent grow after weeks, months, and years of refinement.</p><p>Another one-shoulder shrug. “That’s the thing. I don’t know if I want to go. I’m kind of scared…” He meets Zuko’s eyes and Zuko senses they’re wobbling on the edge of some precipice: Zuko has spilled his heart out to Sokka, and Sokka’s listened. Yet, now it’s Zuko’s turn to act as moral support. He has to prove he’s supportive; he has to prove he’s boyfriend material.</p><p>Zuko reaches across the counter, determined to be what Sokka needs.</p><p>Encouraged by Zuko’s fingers squeezing his, Sokka admits, “I’m scared that no one will really care that I’m going. I need Aang and Katara just to stay sane, but they have their own lives. They don’t need me. I know it’s stupid, because I’m technically the one leaving, but I feel like I’ll be the one left behind.”</p><p>“Sokka…” Zuko breaths. “Sokka, how can you think that’s true? How can you genuinely think that you won’t be missed, or that anyone here will forget about you? That’d be like ignoring the sun or forgetting how to breath. I mean, I don’t know you nearly as well as Aang or Katara and we only met a little bit ago, but you’ve become a permanent in my life. Being near you makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt in my life. You’ll be really, <em>really </em>missed. But—but, that isn’t to say I want to hold you back from going to New York City. I’m only saying no one is being left or forgotten here. At all. I know Aang and Katara feel the same way.”</p><p>Sokka looks at him, and Zuko thinks they might go on looking at each other for hours, until he’s late for work, or missed work entirely. But then, Sokka slides from his stool and rounds the island to stand at Zuko’s side. He cranes back to meet his eyes.</p><p>“Can I kiss you?” Sokka whispers.</p><p>“I thought we established you don’t need to ask.”</p><p>A grin. Sokka’s face closes in, their lips brush, and Zuko’s convinced he’ll never get tired of kissing him.</p><p>(And never stop marveling that Sokka <em>wants </em>to kiss him in the first place.)</p><hr/><p>Ty Lee barely glances up from her computer when Zuko trundles into the office. “Hey, Doc,” she calls before pausing. Her eyes slide back, squinting at him.</p><p>He tracks her thoughts: how she notices his wind-blown (or finger-tussled?) hair, the faint pinkness in his cheeks, his swollen lips. He watches realization dawning across her face, but he’s still unprepared for the volume and ferocity of her exclamation: “<em>Oh, </em>Dr. Sozin, I didn’t know you had it in you! You totally got your bones jumped, didn’t you? <em>Get it!</em> Oh my gosh! Who is it? Someone I know?”</p><p>Considering Ty Lee’s (still unexplained) friendship was the catalyst for Sokka winding up on Zuko’s examination table, Zuko would say Ty Lee <em>definitely </em>knows him. Though, admitting to it would also be an admission of unprofessionalism, which suddenly felt very pertinent to avoid. Especially since his carefully maintained excuses about said professionalism has crumbled down in the face of family drama, Sokka’s understanding eyes, and his kisses. <em>Oh god, his kisses.</em></p><p>Deciding not answering is the safest course of action, Zuko shrugs and tosses her a dopey grin.</p><p>This sends Ty Lee into peals of squeaks and giggles. “Oh, playing coy, huh! Well, now I <em>have </em>to know! Because it <em>is </em>someone I know, isn’t it? Do I have to guess?”</p><p>Zuko would’ve been irritated at how Ty Lee springs from behind her desk, practically chasing him into the clinic and his office. He <em>would </em>have been, that is, if he wasn’t barely keeping from bursting into song himself (not that he’s a Disney prince with a good enough singing voice for anyone to actually <em>want </em>him to burst into song. In the words of Uncle, ‘Some people are singers, some people are listeners.’ It was a gentle but clear way of telling Zuko he’s the latter). He knows it’s ridiculous to be so happy, when his family and Phoenix Pharma are falling apart and when Sokka might be moving to New York City, but the joy ballooning his chest feels so novel, he can’t bring himself to squelch it.</p><p>Ty Lee must sense that, as she plunks herself in the chair opposite Zuko’s desk. She monologues on: “Has it been a whirlwind romance? Because you definitely weren’t this happy last week. Actually, you looked stressed out of your mind last week. Was the person a reluctant lover?” She says ‘lover’ with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. “But of course, you wore them down with your good looks and totally mysterious, suave personality. So, all the stress was worth it! You’ve won over your girl or boy or person, and now you can live happily ever after.” A gasp. “Oh my gosh! Can I be the flower girl at your wedding?”</p><p>Zuko’s stomach pits at the mention of ‘stress from last week,’ rational thought finally catching up with him and reminding him what papers he needs to send today. He doesn’t have the thought to spare on pointing out that flower girls are usually <em>children,</em> pausing in logging into his computer to say “Ty Lee, we need to send forms to withdraw the lordilone from FDA approval first thing. Can you get those for me?”</p><p>She blinks, the bright smile falling and urgency hardening her delicate features.  Squaring her shoulders, she replies, “On it, Doc. Are we informing Dr. Jee’s office?”</p><p>“Yes, but only after the papers are sent off. We don’t want to give him the chance to stop us,” Zuko replies. To Ty Lee’s hinging mouth, a question forming, Zuko adds: “As head researcher, my signature means more than his.”</p><p>“Um, okay. Sure thing, I’ll get those papers drawn up right now.” She’s out of her seat in an instant, rushing to the door in a great whirl of pencil skirt and high heels.</p><p>Zuko’s fingers fly, finishing logging in to his computer before pulling up the relevant data he’ll need to fill into the forms Ty Lee brings back. Angling for a distraction, Zuko fishes out his phone and fires off a text to Azula:</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Working on the withdrawal papers right now. Any updates from Dallas?</p><p>She must be either bored or in a meeting, because she replies immediately.</p><p><strong>Azula: </strong>I haven’t seen Father yet, though I suspect it’s because everyone wants to see him. Going to try to catch him at lunch after this dull meeting ends.</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>What are you going to say to him?</p><p><strong>Azula: </strong>I need to find out what else the Feds will uncover when the investigation starts, and if he has any idea about where Mom went. Need to figure out how much shit we’re looking at.</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>More than enough shit to shovel</p><p><strong>Azula: </strong>Ha, time to get digging.</p><p>“Are you texting your sister?” Ty Lee asks, announcing her return.</p><p>Zuko glances up, finding her standing over her desk. She’s not exactly snooping, but she certainly is leaning enough to goggle at the contact name at the top of the text conversation. “Yeah. Do you have the forms?” he replies, holding an expectant hand for them.</p><p>“Oh, here, sorry.”</p><p>“That’s okay, and thanks for getting these so quickly,” Zuko replies with a shrug. The instant his eyes land on the form—the squares to fill out, the detailed description he’ll have to concoct about the reason for the withdrawal with piquing suspicion—he forgets Ty Lee’s nosiness.</p><p>Ty Lee, however, does not. “So, um, how is she? Your sister?”</p><p>“Good, I guess,” Zuko manages, distracted.</p><p>“Oh, um, that’s good.” Pause. Zuko snatches out a pen from his desk cupholder and begins scribbling. “Does she, um, ever mention me?”</p><p>Zuko’s pen pauses. He peels his eyes slowly off the form, squinting at Ty Lee. He wonders when she started blushing. “Does my sister, Azula, ever mention you?” he clarifies, in what he hopes isn’t a hostile voice, because in any other instance, he would find this development immensely intriguing. Just not <em>this</em> instance, right now, when he’s trying to cover his and Dr. Jee’s asses from being blasted by the FDA and the entirety of the United States government.</p><p>Ty Lee nibbles at her lip, nodding with something as close to nervousness as he’s ever seen her. As a general rule, Ty Lee’s abounding confidence doesn’t allow for nerves. Yet—and he could be imagining this—she’s actually <em>shifting her feet. </em>Taking pity on her, Zuko says, “Listen, let’s talk about this over lunch, okay? When we can have a full conversation about it?”</p><p>A toothy smile, scrunching her grey eyes into little crescents of happiness, blooms across her face. “Okay, awesome! And, um, sorry, I’ll leave you to your paperwork.”</p><p>           </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks so much to everyone who weighed in on the premises! I am equal parts excited to share the end of this story and also dive into some of those fics!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The b-word (boyfriends!!!) is thrown around, and other dramatic developments.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks, as ever, is due to the amazing, wonderful, smart, and talented @cinnamoncookies. </p><p>Also, have you all ever had a day that feels like it's had a week-full of developments? Because that's today for me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sokka going back to his apartment in the middle of the day, when he knows Katara nor Aang have a chance of being there, isn’t cowardice, <em>thank you. </em>It’s survival.</p><p>He knows Zuko will be disappointed he didn’t talk with Katara and Aang as promised—and if Zuko’s disappointed face is anything like his expectant face, it’ll devastate Sokka and make him entirely pliable to Zuko’s faintest whim—but he also knows giving Katara maximum recovery time is necessary.  The more minutes, hours, or days he can put between an initial fight and reconciliation, the less likely it is to have his ass handed to him. Admittedly, though, no one hands Sokka’s ass to him quite like Katara does. He chalks it up to twenty-five-years of training; she practically came out of the womb dragging Sokka.</p><p>Druk keeps Sokka company on the journey from Zuko’s apartment in southern Lincoln Park to his in the northern part, barely a block away from Bucktown. He stops occasionally to sniff at trees, fellow dogs, and fire hydrants. It’s as though he’s aware of a daily stereotypical dog-things quotient he has to fulfill, and he does so with a single-minded focus. Sokka patiently stops, waiting at each pause, a vague sort of smile playing at his mouth.</p><p>Watching Druk, he’s reminded of Zuko. Sokka remembers Aang once explaining his theory about how all dogs acquire their human’s attributes—and vice versa—a few months ago on ‘Chew and Chat.’ Since, Sokka’s become hyper aware of Appa and Aang’s tendency to lean their heads against Sokka and also an affinity for vegan croissant-doughnuts (‘it’s called a <em>cronut</em>, Sokka! C’mon, I’ve told you, like, <em>fifteen times,’ </em>Aang once groused). Yet the similarities between Zuko and Druk were more subtle; the intense focus they devoted to an immediate task, how they had a nervous way about them. Druk minced his steps like he constantly needed to move for fear of staying still while Zuko nibbled his lip to channel his anxiety. It had the unfortunate (or extremely fortunate, Sokka can’t tell) effect of drawing Sokka’s attention to his very plump, very kissable mouth.</p><p>Sokka shakes away thoughts of Zuko’s mouth, and how he explored it that morning.</p><p>He has a search and rescue mission.</p><p>As he’s passing Homeslice Pizza—the very first restaurant he and Aang reviewed on ‘Chew and Chat’—Druk’s leash snaps taut as he surges ahead, yipping and tail wagging. He looks like a little robotic, wind-up dog. Sokka’s so distracted with trying not to face-plant into the cement, he doesn’t notice Druk dragging him toward a specific target until he’s pouncing and trying to lick an unsuspecting woman’s face. Sokka blinks: an unsuspecting <em>blind </em>girl.</p><p>Sokka blanches. “C’mon Druk, don’t harass people.”</p><p>The woman’s grinning, though, gently pushing off Druk and bending to scratch his ears. The seeing eye-dog at her side—a wiry Labrador with the coloring of a burnt marshmallow—looks as disapproving as a dog can. “Hi, buddy!” she exclaims, petting along his back and tickling under his chin.</p><p>“Wait,” Sokka croaks. He blinks. He knows this girl, met her recently unless his memory is already going at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but <em>where? </em>“Um, sorry, do I know you? Or do you know Druk?”</p><p>The woman straightens, frowning in his general direction. With the better angle of her, Sokka <em>knows </em>he recognizes her. <em>Maybe I interviewed her for a podcast episode? </em>Sokka wonders; he swears he’s met half of the population of the continental United States through one podcast or another, but it wouldn’t explain why she knows Druk. Besides, from her lean and athletic build, she doesn’t exactly look like someone who’s into the morbid or macabre (not to imply fit people can’t be into spooks; Sokka once met a bodybuilder who worked out just in case he needed to ‘Hulk-smash a demon’ which Sokka didn’t even know <em>where </em>to begin unpacking).*</p><p>“Or are you telling me you don’t remember our passionate night?” the woman says, still petting Druk. It’s a weird juxtaposition. Then, she bats her eyelashes and looks downright doleful. On a sigh, she mutters, “I thought we really had something, Sokka.”</p><p>Sokka’s mouth hinges open. It closes. It hinges open. He does a marvelous impression of a landed fish. Finally, a squeak slips out: “I, uh, wha—?” His face blazes with heat. “Um, I’m sorry, but you must be thinking of a different Sokka, because I don’t—”</p><p>A borderline evil cackle. “Calm down, Snoozles!”</p><p>“‘Snoozles?’” Sokka half-heartedly mumbles.</p><p>“I’m just messing with you. I’m Toph; I’m friends with Aang and Zuko. You have me to thank for getting Zuko’s skinny ass to the party last week,” she explains, punching his arm in what Sokka assumes is supposed to be friendly. If friendliness is supposed to leave a bruise.</p><p><em>“Ow,” </em>Sokka mutters, rubbing at his arm as he tries to process the fact 1) Aang has friends he’s never met and 2) Aang’s Gotcha! Day party was literally only four days ago. Further evidence that time is a construction and true love knows no timeline (though Sokka’s not courageous enough to allow himself to <em>think </em>that whatever he has with Zuko is ‘love,’ never mind ‘true.’ <em>Though I desperately hope it is, </em>he thinks).</p><p>Collecting himself, Sokka scrambles for a coherent response: “Um, well, I guess I really do owe you a thanks then.”</p><p>Toph must sense something in the waver of his voice, the implication of his words; one of her perfect eyebrows arches and her smile gains a plotting gleam. Sokka didn’t know it was something smiles could do: gleam plottingly. She demands: “Why? Has something happened?” A pause, but not long enough for Sokka to manage a response. She chugs on: “Well, considering you’re walking Druk like a proper house-husband, you and Zuko hit it off, huh?”</p><p>“Well,” Sokka croaks.</p><p>Toph takes it as confirmation enough. “Damn! I didn’t think Sparky could move so fast.” Another punch at Sokka’s arm, and this time he braces for it. It doesn’t keep it from aching or him from wincing. “Good for you! I really thought Twinkletoes was out of his mind when he randomly invited Zuko, but he had been moping about how you’d never notice he even existed. I guess love finds a way, or whatever.” She mimes throwing up.</p><p>“Wait, wait,” Sokka interjects, feeling like his brain swims through syrup and he’s stuck about two sentences behind Toph. “Back up. Are you saying that Aang and you, like, schemed to get Zuko to the party? And that he, <em>err</em>, liked me beforehand?”</p><p>“‘Liked’ is an understatement. It was more like ‘hopelessly obsessed,’” Toph replies, cackling. A few pedestrians walking past blink at her, as if genuinely concerned for her well-being. Sokka can empathize. “And, to be really honest with you, I didn’t do much of the scheming. It was more of Aang, but if you want to give me credit during your wedding speech, or whatever, I definitely won’t complain. Though, I’m telling you now, you guys better have some bomb-ass food at the reception.”</p><p>Sokka, quite deaf to Toph’s increasingly detailed specifications about his and Zuko’s hypothetical wedding menu, gives a vague, ‘Yeah, sure; we’ll get on it.’ His mind is too busy processing a world where Zuko had apparently been just as infatuated with him since the beginning as he had been with Zuko.</p><p> </p><p>*The author would like to submit Zak Bagans, patron saint of ghoul-hunting and ripped-emo-kids everywhere, as another artifact supporting this argument.</p><hr/><p>[Text conversation retrieved from Katara Imiq’s phone]</p><p>11:55 AM, Tuesday April 2<sup>nd</sup></p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: Have you heard anything from Sokka?</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: Aren’t you supposed to be teaching right now?</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: They’re doing small group discussion</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: Oooooh</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: what’s the read?</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: Auden’s “Funeral Blues”</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: But don’t distract me!! Any news?</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: “The stars are not wanted now; put out every one/Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun/Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood/For nothing now can ever come to any good.”</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: Did you just google that?</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: Of course not! I had them memorized; we love an edgy sad boi!*</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: Literally, you just directly quoted one of the girls in my class</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: Omg, give her an A</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: A for Aang lol</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: And no, I haven’t heard anything</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: Ugh, I thought Zuko said he would talk to him</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: And I think he did! But you know Sokka, his stubbornness runs in the family. He won’t call until he’s ready to call and that’s that, not matter how much he makes puppy-eyes at Zuko and makes to suck his face</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: Please never use ‘suck’ in the same sentence as my brother ever again</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: My b</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: And what do you mean ‘stubbornness runs in the family’?????</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: nothing…[eye emojis]</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: Uh huh</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: Sooooo what do we think of Zuko/Sokka?? Zukka? Soko?</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: Gross, hate both of those couple names</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: Yeah, needs some workshopping for sure</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: And I like Zuko!! He just reminds me of a little awkward duckling, and I think he’d be good for Sokka. He seems a lot more rational and level-headed</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: Also a dreamy doctor</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: Lolol yeah that too</p><p> </p><p>12:31 PM</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: Sorry, had to dip to wrap up class and send the kiddos to lunch.</p><p> </p><p>12:45 PM</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: Nbd, my next patient just arrived</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: You want to come hang out after work? Homemade hummus night?</p><p><strong>Aang</strong>: Heck yes!!!!!!!!!! Say no more, I’m there. I’ll bring some Stacy’s pitas</p><p><strong>Katara</strong>: Omg, yes, we love our girl Stacy</p><p> </p><p>*The reader should be aware Aang wasn’t actually lying about having this particular Auden poem memorized; about three years ago, Katara mentioned that Auden was one of her favorite poets (very much in passing). This spurred Aang into reading his entire collected poems and memorizing some on the off chance he could casually mention them to Katara</p><hr/><p>The slight acidity of sautéing onions in a pan and the methodical sizzling and popping of butter create an aromatic haze that layers the apartment and greets Zuko when he swings his front door in. Blinking, stuttering to a stop, he stares at Sokka, standing over the stovetop armed with a spatula and a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron. Zuko’s not sure what’s more likely: Sokka previously owning that apron or going out of his way to buy it today solely to tempt Zuko into more kisses (he preferred to think it’s the latter option).</p><p>At the scrape of the key in the lock, Sokka turns to fix Zuko with a grin and a casual: “Oh hey, welcome home!”</p><p>And it’s so studiedly casual—Sokka cooking <em>for him, </em>calling the apartment ‘home’ as if it’s something they share together—Zuko feels himself blushing up to the roots of his dark hair. After a few seconds of desperately trying to relocate his voice, he croaks out, “You didn’t have to make dinner.”</p><p>“I know, but I <em>wanted </em>to,” Sokka replies, smile sunny.</p><p>Zuko’s chest feels like it’s expanding from happiness, as if his heart is trying to stretch to encapsulate every wild, deliriously happy feeling he’s experiencing but can’t comprehend the enormity of it. He settles for: “Well, thanks. It smells amazing.”</p><p>“I’m making chicken marsala, à la Cheesecake Factory,” Sokka informs as Zuko comes over to sniff at the pan. Under Sokka’s careful tending, the onions fry up, golden-brown and mouthwateringly crisp. “I figured you deserved the carbs after…everything.”</p><p>“Honestly,” Zuko replies, kissing Sokka’s cheek in thanks and hoping he doesn’t notice how his lips linger a second too long, savoring the warmth of Sokka’s skin. Zuko knows he can’t let out how desperately in love with Sokka he is; it’d be too much too soon. It’s been a literal four days since Aang’s party—though he feels like it’s been lifetimes; centuries he’s weathered with Sokka at his side. Besides, it’s probably only because Sokka’s the one life-raft he has to cling to while his life devolves into a riptide, threatening to carry him out sea and drown him under the swells of family pressure, federal investigations, and impending lawsuits.</p><p>“How’d that go today, by the way? Were you able to submit the withdrawal papers?” Sokka asks, going to shake half a box of bowtie pasta into a bubbling pot of water.</p><p>"I was able to submit them, so all we can really do is wait. It’s only been a day, so the FDA should process the request without connecting the falsified data with my dad’s shadiness,” he replies, going to shrug off his outercoat and sports jacket. Under the guise of kneeling to rub Druk’s belly, Zuko allows his eyes dart to how the apron nips in at Sokka’s waist, hinting at the trim, muscled torso underneath; his attention lingers on the perfect triangular ratio between Sokka’s waist and shoulders. Seized with sudden playfulness, Zuko observes: “You know, you make a really cute house-husband.”</p><p>Sokka sets aside his spatula, looking over his shoulder at Zuko. He’s pleased to see a blush staining his cheeks. “You, uh.” He squeaks. Swallowing, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing, he tries again, his confident far more convincing this time: “You think I’m cute?”</p><p>“Yeah, of course,” Zuko replies. “I mean, I thought that was obvious with all the kissing.”</p><p>Sokka shrugs. “I don’t know; I thought it was because we were having some pretty heavy conversations; you know, I read that it  is scientifically proven that kissing is a pretty good release.”</p><p>“As I doctor, I can tell you that’s one-hundred-percent not true,” Zuko replies, leaving off petting Druk to return to Sokka’s side. He gives his lips a quick peck. “But good try.” And maybe it’s because Zuko’s actually beginning to allow himself to believe that the lordilone debacle might not come back to bite him in the ass, or because the sight of Sokka cooking in his kitchen is simply Too Much, or because Zuko just has a strange coping mechanism, but he allows his happiness to stretch his mouth wide. He smiles at Sokka, kissing him again. “You know, I really think everything’s going to be okay.”</p><p>“Good,” Sokka says, mirroring the smile. At such close proximity, Zuko notices how Sokka’s lower eyelids push up when he smiles, as if his entire face wants to get in on his happiness.</p><p>“But what happened to you today? Did anything good?” Zuko asks, gently wrestling the pasta tongs from Sokka and positioning himself to help with dinner.</p><p>“I actually ran into Toph, your friend,” Sokka replies. “She told me that you had a crush on me?”</p><p> Under any other circumstance, Zuko knew he would dive for the nearest table to hide under, but not even utter mortification can damper his spirits. He replies gamily: “Wow, that’s incredibly embarrassing. How did that come up?”</p><p>“Well, she led off with a joke about us sleeping together and then it just kind of came up from there.” He shrugs.</p><p>Zuko gusts out a laugh; he’d heard Toph use that line of a fair number of unsuspecting people (which, ironically enough, kicked off at least of her relationships).</p><p>“Of course she did. Did you know she said that to my friend, June, and they dated for six months after?”</p><p>“Wow,” Sokka says, glancing at Zuko to see if he’s serious. “How? Literally, how is that a come on?”</p><p>“I have no idea. It’s just Toph’s way of reeling people, and I guess it works.”</p><p>“Huh, different strokes for different folks, I guess.”</p><p>“I guess,” Zuko agrees, shrugging. “So, did you talk to your sister?”</p><p>A pregnant silence. Sokka finally drawls out an “Uuuuuh.”</p><p>Zuko sets aside his tongs, turning to fix Sokka squarely with a dry look. “Sokka.”</p><p>Putting aside the spatula, Sokka pivots to face him, too. “Zuko.” He mimics Zuko’s expectant look, and <em>damn </em>if it isn’t cute.</p><p>Zuko resists the urge to kiss him, knowing it’d completely undermine the entire point he’s trying to make. With an extreme amount of self-control (like, seriously, it’s probably the greatest display of restraint ever witnessed on the Earth, and should go down in history books), Zuko doesn’t kiss him again nor even allows their fingers to brush. “I thought you were going to? I know you’ll feel better if you do. Clear the air, and all that.” Zuko knows it’s kind of a hypocritical thing for him to say.</p><p>Fortunately, Sokka doesn’t call him out. He only sighs. “I know, I know…” He nibbles his lip, and actually maybe <em>this </em>is the greatest show of restraint the world’s ever seen: Sokka’s nibbling pinkens his lips, puffing them and making them look so <em>kissable. </em>Zuko eyes his mouth, as Sokka offers: “How about a deal?”</p><p>“A deal?” Zuko repeats, somehow having the presence of mind to raise an eyebrow.</p><p>“Yeah.” Sokka nods. “I’ll talk to Katara tomorrow, if you agree to watch <em>The Muppets Christmas Carol </em>with me tonight.”</p><p>“What—why—?” Zuko splutters. If he had a thousand guesses, he never would have predicted these conditions. In his flurry of questions, he settles on the least pertinent: “It’s not even Christmas time?”</p><p>“Irrelevant. <em>Christmas Carol </em>is not only the best Muppets movie, but it’s also the best Christmas Carol story ever,” Sokka replies readily, as though he expected the question.</p><p>Zuko barely contains a bark of laughter, observing instead: “I’m sure Charles Dickens would disagree with that.”</p><p>“Eh, he can suck it.” Sokka shrugs. “I mean, the man had ‘dick’ in his last name; he was a total dweeb, and he’s just mad that a bunch of felt puppets showed him up on his own story.”</p><p>“There’s so many things wrong with that,” Zuko mutters.</p><p>Sokka grins, wide and with lights dancing in his sapphire eyes. “So, do we have a deal?”</p><p>Considering Zuko would do <em>anything </em>for that smile, of course they have a deal.</p><hr/><p>Five minutes into <em>The Muppets Christmas Carol </em>and Sokka’s reached two very shocking realizations. Firstly, he quite likes the feeling of Zuko cuddled up against his side on the couch, a blanket draped over their laps and nothing separating their skin but Sokka’s jeans and the soft cotton sweatpants Zuko changed into before dinner. Secondly, Zuko didn’t know Michael Caine—beloved by thousands and an absolute blessing upon silver screens everywhere—plays Ebenezer Scrooge.</p><p>“Are you <em>kidding </em>me?” Sokka exclaims, barely controlling his wildly flailing elbow from upsetting the popcorn bowl, even though Druk looks extremely hopeful—and sequentially disappointed—a serendipitous snack might land on the floor. Though they had just had dinner, Sokka reasoned: ‘one does not simply watch a <em>Muppets </em>movie without popcorn.’</p><p>Zuko couldn’t argue with that, instead fishing through his cupboard for Orville Redenbacher popcorn. In a completely unsurprising, very on-brand turn of events, Zuko of course has the Prada of microwave popcorn brands. Sokka falls just a little bit more in love with him for it.</p><p> Sokka rambles on: “How could you <em>not </em>know?”</p><p>Zuko smiles like he can’t begin to fathom his fondness for Sokka or his outraged gestations—<em>or maybe it’s more than fondness? Maybe he returns my—</em> Sokka won’t allow himself to finish the thought. Zuko defends himself: “I’m sorry I don’t have his entire IMDB page memorized.”</p><p>“Which is a major character flaw that we seriously need to discuss,” Sokka fires back, earning him a mouth full of popcorn shoved into his face by Zuko. Cackling, not minding how Druk snaps up the errant kernels, Sokka submits to Zuko’s popcorn-pummeling, instead catching his fingers with soft pecks.</p><p>Steadily turning a brighter shade of red, Zuko snatches back his hand but Sokka can’t fight a triumphant grin: Zuko leans closer, burying his face into Sokka’s shoulder. They’re properly cuddling now, and even though Sokka’s the reason for the blush, Zuko still literally leans on him to hide his embarrassment. Sokka’s heart is so damn full from being so fucking endeared, he’s sure he’ll burst.</p><p>They fall quiet, the movie continuing to play. As Kermit, playing Bob Cratchit, is introduced—along with establishing the cruelty of Scrooge denying his freezing employments coal during a London winter—Sokka feels Zuko melt into his side, properly relaxing. When Scrooge returns to his miserly shabby apartment, kicking off the frankly bopping Marley Brothers song, Sokka dares to loop his arm around Zuko’s shoulders. He tries to cover the gravity of the gesture, how he’s testing dangerous waters, with an offhanded quip, “This is my favorite song. I had this mint green iPod Nano back in the day, and I downloaded this song onto it. Of course, it wasn’t available in the Apple store, so I had to illegally download it.”</p><p>Zuko snorts. “Limewire?” he guesses.</p><p>“Oh, one-hundred percent,” Sokka replies, shifting just slightly. He’s practically scooted Zuko onto his lap, and part of him <em>knows </em>this isn’t the movie to have playing as the background noise for putting the moves on Zuko; for perhaps unraveling that longtime crush Toph mentioned Zuko having or unpacking what Zuko thought their kisses meant (perhaps with more kissing). But, Sokka can’t think straight—not with Zuko’s cologne in his nose, his breath tickling his ears, and just <em>him all around and everywhere—</em>can’t reason beyond his intense <em>need </em>to be as near to Zuko as possible. He prattles on, like he usually does when he’s nervous, “Katara was ripshit about it, because I kind of downloaded it without realizing that there were a ton of viruses attached to it. It crashed the computer for <em>weeks, </em>and we had to wait until Dad got home from deployment because Gran-Gran doesn’t know anything about computers. Katara’s Neopets died, and she didn’t forgive me for <em>weeks.” </em></p><p>Zuko snorts, before falling quiet for a few minutes. He watches as the Ghost of Christmas Past—a seriously creepy ghost-child that haunted the majority of Sokka’s childhood, and was deadass what he imagined when Gran-Gran dragged him to church and he listened to sermons about ‘the Holy Spirit’—before he swings his eyes back to Sokka. “Wait, you said your Dad was deployed? Was he in the military? Iraq?”</p><p>Sokka shakes his head. “No, thankfully not; Dad’s in the Navy. When you meet him, make sure to ask about that, because he’s seriously so proud of it. He’ll love you forever.” Sokka both hopes and <em>doesn’t </em>hope Zuko does notice how he said ‘when’ as if meeting the parents would be an inevitable step: on one hand, it’s too much too soon and Sokka needs to pump the goddamn breaks. But then, the complete rightness of Zuko at Sokka’s side is undeniable, and Sokka is enough of a romantic to believe Zuko feels it, too. “And make sure to tell Gran-Gran you love her fried fish; I mean, it’s the best thing you’ll ever eat, so it’s not like you’re giving her false compliments, but she loves that recipe more than she loves any of us.”</p><p>Zuko chuckles quietly. “They both sound amazing.” Pause. “What about your mom?”</p><p>“Um, well,” Sokka draws out, trying to stuff syllables into those two words in an effort to buy time. He knows an unequal amount about the Sozin family’s secrets, it seemed only fair to confide in him about Kya. Yet, the habitual trickle of fear begins to leak into his spring, a seemingly never-ending wellspring of terror and grief that still floods his chest, chokes his throat, and leaks from his eyes even after all these years. Breathing past the emotions, coaching himself that he can be brave with Zuko at his side, he begins again, “Um, well. She died in a car crash when Kat and I were really young. Dad was home, and that was really fortunate, because I think…I don’t want to think what would’ve happened if he wasn’t there. Don’t get me wrong, we all fell apart in our own way, and I think Dad ran away to a ship every chance he got just because he didn’t know how to deal with a grieving couple of kids <em>and </em>his own loss.”</p><p>“Oh, Sokka,” Zuko breaths. He says Sokka’s name like he caresses it, like he’s wrapping him in a blanket of love and sympathy, and cocooning him tight and secure. Zuko presses his ear to Sokka’s shoulder, his fingers lacing with Sokka’s free hand. “I’m so sorry. That sucks.”</p><p>“No…it’s okay,” Sokka replies, finding it really <em>is </em>okay. “I was really angry with him for a bit—Katara more so—but I forgave him.”</p><p>“But how?” Zuko asks. When Sokka doesn’t immediately reply, he adds, “I don’t think I can ever forgive my father…or even my mother. I’m worried that makes me a horrible person.”</p><p>Sokka ducks his head to catch Zuko’s eyes so he can see his sincerity reflected back at him. “Zuko. You are absolutely, under no circumstances, to think you’re horrible for not wanting to forgive your parents for frankly being horrible. I forgave my dad because he was reacting like a human, and though it was unfair of him to leave us kids, it’s also unfair to expect a man who just lost the love of his life to just be alright. But your parents are different.”</p><p>Zuko’s eyes cut away from Sokka, nibbling his lip. Sokka <em>feels </em>Zuko nodding against his shoulder more than he sees it. Eventually, he volunteers, “I know. Or, I think I’m beginning to know that. I think I’ve known it in my…in my heart, if that’s not a weird thing to say?” Sokka nods encouragingly. Zuko draws in a steeling breath: “Yeah, I’ve known it in my heart for a while, but it’s just a different thing having to speak it out loud, you know?”</p><p>“Yeah, trust me, I know,” Sokka replies, leaning back to press his cheek to the top of Zuko’s head. They fall quiet, watching Scrooge crying over his past girlfriend (Sokka snorted and jokingly said, ‘Ugh, the straights’ which sent Zuko cackling), and Zuko snuggling in more. As the movie plays, Sokka doesn’t truly watch: his mind spins with the weight of their conversation, how he managed to tell someone about his mom without dissolving into hysterics. For years, neither he nor Katara could mention her without being choked by the sheer rush of grief overwhelming them, but he hadn’t been tripped by tears—not once. He told Zuko about her, about the dark years where Gran-Gran had been their only guiding light, and emerging on the other side, still able to forgive and love his dad.</p><p>And it’s this, more than the dinners or the lingering kisses or the complete comfort of cuddling, that prompts Sokka to finally say: “Zuko, please tell me if this is too much too soon, but would you want to go out with me?”</p><p>Zuko stills, and Sokka knows he could’ve led up to it with more finesse; he could have prepared the poor boy more or perhaps asked him when his family wasn’t on the verge of complete ruin. But then, Sokka can’t be sorry for recklessly chasing something he knows to be truer and better and brighter than he’s ever encountered before in his life.</p><p>A long exhale carries out Zuko’s reply: “Like, to dinner or go out as in be boyfriends?”</p><p>Sokka cracks a grin. “Would both be too much to ask for?”</p><p>Zuko buries his face in the crook of Sokka’s neck and he can practically <em>feel </em>the heat radiating off him from a blush. “Definitely not.” And how could Sokka <em>not </em>kiss Zuko? How could he not finally scoop him onto his lap and kiss him until both of them lost track of time and place, only breaking for air?</p><hr/><p>Zuko breezes out of his last morning appointment—a middle-aged man who finally got his cast removed—smiling and not quite knowing why. Or, he <em>does </em>know why, but he doesn’t particularly like to think about it at work. It’ll only make him feel queasy and guilty, confronted with the knowledge his fledgling romance and new relationship (!) with Sokka is ethically unscrupulous—even though it seems incomprehensible for something so joyful to be so (allegedly) wrong.</p><p>Chasing away the thought before the unwanted anxiety can prickle his skin, Zuko breezes up to the receptionist desk, tapping out a rhythm across the tap, and earning a grin from Ty Lee. “Want to swing over to Pret for a sandwich? I do owe you a lunchtime conversation, don’t I?”</p><p>Her grin stretches so wide, it’s likely to stick there forever. “Oh, you absolutely do! Let me switch incoming calls to my phone and then I’ll be able to go.”</p><p>“And I need to grab my wallet,” Zuko returns. “Be back in a second.” Her trilling agreement falls on his retreating back as he wends back around the web of the clinic’s halls, dashing into his office. It’s a quick matter—rote muscle memory—that has him stuffing his wallet and keys into his pocket. It’s only as he’s shrugging on his coat that he catches sight of a notification of a missed call on his phone.</p><p>His breath catches.</p><p>Momentum eking from his limbs, leaving him paralyzed except for his continuous blinking down at the phone, Zuko’s left stupefied for a dragging three minutes. Then, a rattling breath expands his lungs and urges him back to reality. A quick thumb-swipe and he’s returning the missed call.</p><p>Returning the call from Ursa Sozin, breaking her silence and her two-week disappearance.</p><p>He presses the phone to his ear, nibbling his lip more incessantly with each dial tone. One ring, two, three, four. Then, a click.</p><p>“Zuko?” a woman’s voice asks from the other end. Zuko breaths past a sudden sob that wants to rip from his chest and out of his throat. It’s his <em>mom, </em>it’s genuinely her, and he isn’t sure if he expected it to be someone using her phone—some cruel trick to make him look a fool, or to use him—but hearing it’s actually her loosens something in him. It renders him speechless, leaving a void he can’t begin to hope to fill. Ursa tries: “Zuko? Baby? Are you there?”</p><p>Clearing his throat, gathering his wits as best he can, Zuko croaks, “Yeah, sorry, it’s me, Mom. I’m here.”</p><p>“Oh, hello, baby,” she replies, her relief audible. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”</p><p>“Yeah, yours too.” He tries to clear his throat again; he’s marginally more successful this time. “Are you okay? Where are you?”</p><p>“I’m fine; I’m sorry I worried you and Azula. I didn’t mean to,” she replies lightly, as if she had spontaneously traveled to Bali à la Elizabeth Gilbert, instead of disappearing days before a major family and company scandal that—if Azula is right—was entirely of her own making.</p><p>Deciding that inquiring <em>how </em>she <em>possibly </em>could have thought that he and Azula <em>wouldn’t </em>worry about their mother literally vanishing might come off too combative just then, Zuko sticks to pressing:  “But where have you been?”</p><p>Her answer is simple: “Dallas.”</p><p>Zuko can literally feel his brain doing three-hundred-sixty spins in his skull. All he can do is parrot back: “Dallas?”</p><p>Her ‘retreat’ home—the place where Ozai has stored his crazy wife in between the stays in California rehabilitation centers—is in Colorado, not far from the family cabin in Aspen. For the past few years, Zuko’s begun to think of the mountains as his mother’s domain. If he had to guess where she’d vanish to as a part of a Witness (or Whistleblower?) Protection Program, he’d have assumed another city in Colorado, or at least a state where the Rocky Mountains run through. Canada, even. Yet, he’d never have guesses Dallas: the city, and the entire state of Texas, belongs to Ozai.</p><p>Her returning to Dallas either means she simply doesn’t care about being found, or he can no longer do anything to her.</p><p>“Yes, and I want you to come down immediately,” Ursa continues. “There are some very important matters that I need to talk with you about in person.”</p><p>“Why in person?”</p><p>Ursa’s reply is plaintive, so obvious it belies the terrifying implications: “It’s not safe to talk on the phone. Never know who’s listening.” Implying <em>Ozai </em>is listening, implying there’s a bug in Zuko’s—<em>every Sozin family member’s phone—</em>and Ozai could know about Sokka already.</p><p>Zuko refuses to panic over a very big ‘if.’ After all, for all he knows, Ursa could be acting paranoid. She’d been known to have her episodes while on her medications (<em>but Azula said she’s off everything, </em>a treacherous voice in Zuko’s brain whispers, <em>she said Mom’s thinking clearly for the first time.)</em></p><p>But Ursa doesn’t give time for Zuko’s mental aerobics to subside enough to allow him to reply, instead plowing on: “I’ve booked a flight for you to leave O’Hare at four this evening. That should give you enough time to pack, though don’t worry about bringing anything besides a toothbrush. It’s been forever since I’ve been able to shop for my little boy, and I want to spoil you when you’re down here.” She’s talking like he’s coming home early for Christmas. “And we’ve got a lot to do before the investigation on your father begins.”</p><p>Zuko blinks. He wrenches his phone from his ear, blinking at the caller I.D. because, for the most fleeting of moments, Ursa’s words sounded as sharp as knives. She sounded like Azula. It takes Zuko enough off guard that he forgets to protest about how he can’t simply drop his life and fly down to Dallas: he has patients to attend, FDA withdrawal papers to receive, a boyfriend to return home to. He forgets to demand why—after Ursa abandoned him and Azula—he should come when she calls, because this is his mother and he’s still her son. So, he replies, “Should you tell me your Dallas address or something?”</p><p>“No need for that, honey. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”</p><hr/><p>Sokka’s really leaning into this whole ‘house-husband’ gig.</p><p>After spamming Aang’s phone with new ideas for ‘Chew and Chat’ and the <em>Weird Chicago </em>series, he popped in his AirPods and became a dervish of cleaning and productivity. We’re talking taking Druk to the dog park, before coming home to mop the floors, dust the bookshelves, scrub the counters, organize the refrigerator, and then mopping again (when he scrubbed the counters and wiped down the shelves, he realized he sent a maelstrom of debris onto his freshly washed points, completely undoing all of his work; what Sokka lacked in technique he made up for in enthusiasm).</p><p>It’s getting on to afternoon, and Sokka’s still waiting on a reply from Aang. It must be a busy day at his office. Drumming his fingers against the kitchen island counter, Sokka nibbles at his lower lip, squinting down at his phone. <em>Should I text Katara? </em>he wonders.</p><p>He’s officially being a coward not talking to her; it’s been two days since the fight and it’s kind of killing him that he’s gone a full fourteen hours as Zuko Sozin’s boyfriend (<em>BOYFRIEND!)</em> without calling up his sister to scream about it. Also, his first official act of Zuko’s boyfriend ought to be upholding his end of the deal to reconcile with his sister. Sokka needed to prove he’s a man of integrity, always to be counted on to keep his word, and he might get a few kisses as a reward as an added plus.</p><p>Yet, it’s also the middle of Katara’s school day, and even if he did call, she couldn’t answer. Or, if she did, there was always the chance she’d been him on speaker with the entirety of her tenth grade Honors English class. Again. (Admittedly, it had been kind of fun to be a spontaneous ‘guest judge’ when the kids all read passages of <em>Beowulf </em>to him over the phone.) Sighing, Sokka pockets his phone, going to collect his laundry.</p><p>Though he hasn’t accumulated much from staying at Zuko’s apartment, he still hated the sight of the little mound of dirty laundry at the bottom of his walk-in closet. He had an irrational fear of Zuko going into the guest bedroom for some reason and spotting Sokka’s socks, breaking up with him on the spot because he can’t stand the proof of Sokka’s cheesy thought. And, yeah, it might be creepy on some level to do his brand-new boyfriends laundry, but he decides its ultimately a nice gesture.</p><p>With Druk following along at his heels, Sokka piles his laundry into the washing machine, before shuffling into Zuko’s bedroom. The dirty laundry hamper is tucked in the corner—tastefully out of sight, which is in keeping with the entirety of Zuko’s apartment: tasteful—and he schleps it back. Scooping clothes into the machine, Sokka’s fingers curl into a black tee shirt and he’s nearly pitched it in with the rest when white lettering catches his eyes. The tee-shirt is old, balled tight hastily, as Zuko’s embarrassed by it and Sokka smiles mischievously.</p><p>“Oh, what do you think this is, bud?” Sokka asks Druk as if he might reply. “A mathlete shirt from high school? Or some nerdy—” Words die on Sokka’s tongue.</p><p>Laying limp in his hands, pinning him with faded font and a barely-there screen-print of a ghost, is an old <em>Cryptid: Decoded. </em>‘Old’ as in from the original merchandise run, nearly two years ago when the podcast had an initial spike in popularity. Sokka’s tried to find this exact tee-shirt in the years since, kicking himself for not buying their own merchandise, but he could never find <em>this </em>one. The black one with the cartoon ghost wearing a comically large mustache and the white font stylized to look like ghost slime (‘it’s called ectoplasm,’ Aang’s fond of reminding Sokka).</p><p>Sokka knows he’s staring down three undeniable truths:</p><p>1) Zuko is a fan of the show—he has to be one to have this specific limited-edition, three-year-old shirt—and therefore 2) he’s a long-time fan, so this means, 3) ever since Sokka met Zuko, he’s been lying.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Zuko is reminded why everything is bigger in Texas: the airport, the interstate, and the family drama.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: I don't actually dislike Dallas, though it might read otherwise. If you're ever in the area, do check out Torchy's tacos. There's a reason its Zuko's favorite.</p>
<p>As always, my deepest love and gratitude to my beta, @cinnamoncookies</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>[Text conversation retrieved from Sokka Imiq’s phone]</p>
<p>1:31 PM Wednesday, April 3<sup>rd</sup></p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Zuko watches C/D</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>wait WHAT?????</p>
<p><strong>Katara: </strong>He finally told you?</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Wait, so you knew?</p>
<p><strong>Katara: </strong>How did you find out?</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>KAT I AM FREAKING OUT AND YOU ANSWERING MY QUESTION WITH A QUESTION DOESN’T HELP</p>
<p><strong>Katara: </strong>Sorry</p>
<p><strong>Katara: </strong>But yes, I knew. I thought it was important that he tell you himself. I’m taking it he didn’t?</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>WAIT WHAT?????</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>No he didn’t. I was doing his laundry (I know, a little creepy after only just beginning to date) but I saw he owns an old C/D shirt. Like OLD old</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>Dang, which one?</p>
<p><strong>Katara: </strong>Back up, did you say you guys are dating????</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>g2g, I think I hear him coming home</p>
<p><strong>Katara: </strong>Please try to stay calm as you’re talking to him!</p>
<p><strong>Aang: </strong>Good luck, Sokka!!</p>
<p>2:08 PM</p>
<p><strong>Katara: </strong>How’s the talk going?</p>
<p><strong>Katara: </strong>Sokka?</p>
<p>2:11 PM</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>We broke up.</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I’m coming home.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Zuko’s out of the Uber before it comes to a complete stop at his apartment building, only to double back a moment later. The driver, a middle-aged woman who is looking at him like he’s crazy (which he might be at this point), cranes in her seat to stare. Shoving his head back inside, he blurts, “Can I give you fifty bucks to wait here and then drive me to O’Hare? I’ll only be ten minutes, tops.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, sure—” the woman replies, but Zuko doesn’t linger to hear the rest. He’s wrenching away from the Uber (a silver Prius) and practically vaulting up the front stoop to his building. He briefly wavers towards the elevator, jabbing his finger on the ‘up’ button, but after a nanosecond of waiting, decides it’s not worth it. He bursts into the stairwell and his long strides send him galloping up the flights, taking three stairs at a time and using the railing to pull himself up. He bursts onto the third floor, out of breath but not bothering to stop to catch it.</p>
<p>He’s twisting open the lock of his door in an instant, though the heady smell of lemon chemical cleaner nearly fumbles him into a paralyzed halt. “Wha—?” he croaks, eyes sliding around the apartment, absorbing the glistening kitchen appliances, polished bookshelves, and sparkling wood floors. <em>Did I hire a cleaning service without remembering? </em>he wonders, before Sokka emerges from the hallway to the washing machine closet and bedrooms.</p>
<p>“Sokka! I got a call from my—” he begins before his attention flickers and sticks. Sokka’s holding an old, carefully folded tee-shirt. Even from across the apartment’s open concept living room, he can read the white lettering.  Words die on Zuko’s tongue, the adrenaline pumping through his veins freezing into solid ice, and his brain begins to turn circles, spinning faster and faster until he’s sure the world spins with him. He might vomit from vertigo.</p>
<p>“Was I supposed to find this?” Sokka asks, holding up the shirt. It unfolds to reveal the cartoon-ghost in all its faded glory. “Or were you ever thinking about actually telling me?”</p>
<p>Zuko attempts to swallow but finds his mouth has gone dry. “I...I know I should’ve told you earlier…” His phone buzzes in his pocket: right on schedule. Ursa promised she’d forward his boarding information to his email. <em>I don’t have a second to lose, </em>he thinks as he chews his lip, stepping aside to let the door shut behind him. He can’t face Sokka as he says: “Listen, I can’t have this conversation right now. I got to go.”</p>
<p>"What do you mean—?” Sokka begins as Zuko crosses the living room, going to brush past Sokka and head for the bedroom. Sokka catches his arm, wheeling him around and forcing their eyes to meet. “Why can’t you talk about this? It’s kind of important—<em>no, </em>it’s <em>really </em>important—”</p>
<p>Zuko gently prizes off Sokka’s fingers, moving way before he can latch on again. “My mother called—”</p>
<p>“From hiding?”</p>
<p>“From Dallas,” Zuko corrects, swinging into his bedroom and going to extract his duffel from the top of his closet. He turns to find Sokka appearing in the doorway but ignores him in favor of plunking the bag onto the bed. He rushes to his dresser to begin shoveling in a random collection of boxers, sleep shirts, and socks.</p>
<p>“Wait, she went <em>to</em> Dallas? Isn’t that where your dad is? What does she want? And why are you packing?” Sokka demands, following Zuko into the room. Zuko keeps packing with single-minded determination; Sokka makes a grab for the waded jeans in his hands. “Would you just stop for a second and talk to me?”</p>
<p>Snatching the jeans back—it follows the socks into the duffel bag in one crumpled mess—Zuko replies, “I have to leave in five minutes for the airport.”</p>
<p>“<em>What?” </em>Sokka squawks, now trailing Zuko to the closet where he takes out two suits, three button-downs, and a few long-sleeve shirts for good measure. “Where? <em>Why?”</em></p>
<p>“I’m going to Dallas; my mom needs me,” Zuko replies, briefly pausing to look Sokka in the eyes as he says: “I’m sorry, but I have to go.” He brushes past to drape the hanging clothes over his duffel before popping into the bathroom.</p>
<p>“Wait, wait, your mother, <em>who dropped off the face of the Earth without at least sending you a heads-up text, </em>has asked you to go back to Dallas to face your dad, and your immediate answer is, ‘okay, let me get on the first flight there’?” Sokka protests, trying to swipe up Zuko’s toothbrush before he can put it in his Dopp kit. Zuko moves too quickly, plucking it up along with his shaving cream, razor, and lotion before Sokka can dive for them.</p>
<p>Zuko ferries it all back to his bag. “It’s not her fault she had to go—” though Zuko knows it’s a lie; knows Sokka knows it’s a lie, too: Ursa <em>still</em> hasn’t given a justification for vanishing or setting his world on fire— “And I’m not going to see my dad, I’m going to see her. Apparently, it’s not safe to talk on the phone. My father could be listening.” Zuko finds his hanging clothes bag at the bottom of his closet, and stuffs his suits and shirts in.</p>
<p>“Your father could be—?” Sokka echoes before shaking his head. “Zuko, that’s insane; are you <em>hearing </em>yourself? Your dad isn’t the freaking FBI!”</p>
<p>Zuko spares him a dark look. “He might be.” Two zipper squeals—the clothes bag and the duffel—and he’s slinging them over his shoulder, headed out of the bedroom “And my mom has something important to talk to me about.”</p>
<p>Sokka remains doggedly close. He brandishes the <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>shirt as he says: “Yeah, funny how a lot of people want to talk to you about important things.”</p>
<p> Zuko casts Sokka an apologetic smile as he sets his duffel onto the kitchen counter, going to stuff his laptop and a novel inside for the plane ride. “I’m really sorry; I want to have a real conversation with you about my, umm, my not telling you. I know you deserve it, but I have to do this right now. I have to go.”</p>
<p>“No, you don’t!” Sokka exclaims, his voice breaking like it does when he’s especially exasperated. “Zuko, you obviously know your mother a lot better than I do, but I can tell she’s no good! You can’t just <em>go! </em>What if she’s using you—and I mean using you <em>more</em> than she already was?”</p>
<p>Zuko bites his lower lip, flinching at the impact of Sokka’s hypothesis, and busies himself fussing over Druk. Patting his head, scratching behind his ears, Zuko coos: “I’m sorry I have to go, Druk. But Sokka can take care of you.” He pauses, straightening to peer at Sokka, “Would you take care of him? Or you can take him to Uncle Iroh’s, if…if you don’t feel up to it.”</p>
<p>Sokka snorts, folding his arms. “I’m not going to take out my irritation on your dog. Druk didn’t do anything wrong.”</p>
<p>Zuko allows for a brief smile to touch his mouth before he smooths it away. He wants to peck Sokka’s mouth in gratitude, but he knows that if he doesn’t continue moving, he’ll never pry himself away. Hefting his bag over his shoulder, he hurries for the door and the hallway beyond. Sokka follows.</p>
<p>“I just don’t understand what the deal is; did you talk to Azula about this? Did she say if your mom could be trusted?” Sokka asks as they enter the stairwell. The cement magnifies Sokka’s question, sending it bouncing and reverberating in Zuko’s ears.</p>
<p>“No, I haven’t talked to her, but this is my mom, Sokka, of course she can be trusted,” Zuko shoots back.</p>
<p>“Really? Because in the time I’ve known you, I’ve only ever heard about how you were abandoned her when you were a kid!” Sokka fires back. They reach the bottom of the stairs, spilling out into the lobby and the outside beyond. The Uber still waits in the street, parking lights on and earning angry honks from other cars that have to swerve around the double-park.</p>
<p>“I know, but this is different—” Zuko begins only to be cut off, Sokka’s hand latching onto his shoulder and swinging him around. Zuko nearly loses his footing on the stoop stair and its only Sokka’s strong grip keeping him upright. Blinking, he stares up at the concern Sokka fixes on his face. A quiet sigh. “I really appreciate the concern, Sokka, but I have a responsibility to my family.”</p>
<p>“What about the responsibilities to your boyfriend?” Sokka blurts out, before pinking slightly and barely repressing a cringe. “I know we haven’t been dating more than a day, but I seriously can’t be alone in feeling so—so—just feeling really, <em>really </em>strongly about you. I’m scared that if you go down to Dallas, you’ll never come back. I’m scared what your family will do to you. Please, just let me…I don’t know. Just let me in.”</p>
<p>Zuko’s breath catches.</p>
<p>Sokka’s looking at Zuko more intently than anyone has ever looked at him before; as though he’s seeing past the ugly, mottled skin on his face, past the surliness and the awkwardness, and straight down to the core of Zuko’s soul. He’s looking at Zuko like he means ‘love’ when he says ‘feeling really strongly’ and as though he’s desperate for Zuko to say it back. And, with the heart-stopping certainty, Zuko knows he’ll never be able to board a plane and leave Sokka behind if he doesn’t shatter this moment right now, right this very second.</p>
<p>Zuko will eventually return from Dallas, but he knows Sokka’s correct, in a way: when he comes back, there might not be enough left of him for Sokka to love; he’ll have been chewed up and spat back out as a shade of himself. And as he stares into Sokka’s blue eyes, deep enough to drown in, he’s seized with a certainty that he can’t force Sokka to deal with him.</p>
<p>He won’t knowingly drag him into the Sozin family drama more than he already has; he won’t risk the doctor-patient malpractice lawsuit that could affect <em>Cryptid: Decoded</em>; he won’t force Sokka to constantly glue Zuko back together again. The cuddles, and kisses, and sweet words, and even sweeter prospect of a relationship were all temporary dreams lulling him into a long delusion, a long indulgence of selfishness, and now he must wake up.</p>
<p>“Maybe…maybe…” Zuko stutters out. He gulps down air, his eyes cutting away from Sokka: he can’t look at him as he says, “Maybe now isn’t a good time for us.” The words are poison on his tongue, venom spreading through his limbs and making his fingers and toes tingle; he feels a paralysis heavying him, turning him leaden, and he wants to punch his own stomach, slap his own face, but he’s a helpless spectator in his own life as his mouth moves. “I can’t drag you into my mess.”</p>
<p>“Zuko, no, that’s not what I—” Sokka interrupts.</p>
<p>Zuko shakes his head, continuing over his protests: “I warned you from the beginning that I’m not a good person, and I shouldn’t have let you try to convince me otherwise. I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>He yanks himself away, taking the last few steps down to the sidewalk pavement in a stumble, before clambering into the Uber. Dully, he fishes out a crisp fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, and hands it over to the drive.</p>
<p>“I think your friend wants to talk to you,” the driver says, carefully folding the dollar bill and placing it into the cupholder.</p>
<p>Zuko refuses to lift his face, refuses to look out the window and see Sokka’s heartbroken face string back. “I know. Just drive.”</p>
<p>The driver glances at him—Zuko feels her eyes boring into the top of his head—before she hums once. The Prius’ idling engine grumbles to life and they slide away from Zuko’s building and Sokka, left on the cement. Zuko doesn’t lift his eyes from his tangled fingers on his lap until they’re well away from his street, away from Lincoln Park, and away from Sokka Imiq.</p>
<p><em>But it’s for the best, </em>Zuko tells himself. <em>It’ll only get uglier from here, and I won’t let Sokka get hurt.</em></p>
<hr/>
<p>It’s funny how heartbreak can ease all other worries; how it can slam all of life’s problems into a jarring perspective.</p>
<p>When Sokka shuffles into his apartment, the bag of his belongings over his shoulder and Druk at his heels, he’s immediately greeted by Katara. She folds him into a tight hug, wordless in her greeting though her devastated face says far more than any spoken sympathies could, and Sokka allows himself to be held. He leans down to press his forehead into her shoulder, not minding how his tears soak into the soft folds of her sweatshirt, and he briefly marvels at how desperately he wanted to avoid her only two hours before; how desperately he texted to her only forty-five minutes ago; how quickly he ran to her now.</p>
<p>Sokka allows his shoulders to shake and his sobs to hiccup, and Katara rubs his back. She never once shushes his tears, or murmurs how it’ll be okay, or makes empty promises she thinks he wants to hear. She only sways and rubs at his back until he quietens. He draws back sometime later, not caring how red and puffy his eyes are.</p>
<p>“Do you want a mug of tea?” she asks, though her frown clearly communicates she wants to ask a hundred other questions; her eyes linger on his tear-blotched cheeks, his snotty nose. Yet, all she offers is a warm drink and Sokka loves her for it.</p>
<p>“Yes, please,” he manages to croak.</p>
<p>Sokka follows her into the little galley kitchen, watching as she fills their kettle with cold water and sets it on the stove top. She fishes out the tea diffusers and tins of loose-leaf from the cupboard before taking down their favorite mugs. Not even Sokka’s great white shark mug—designed to look like its red mouth is gaping wide and the brim edged by mean, pointy fangs—can cheer him up.</p>
<p>Only after the pot starts whistling and Katara divides the boiling water does Sokka begin: “His mom called and ordered him back down to Dallas.”</p>
<p>Katara nods, offering him the shark mug.</p>
<p>“Thanks.” Sokka wraps his fingers around it, reveling in the warmth, as Katara slides into the spot across from him at the counter. “I tried to get him to stop. I’m worried about him; whenever his family so much as <em>sneezes,</em> it’s like he immediately bends over backwards to offer a tissue.”</p>
<p>“Nice metaphor,” Katara murmurs into her tea.</p>
<p>A smile attempts to twitch across Sokka’s face. It withers, too weak to be sustained. “I just…I know I didn’t meet him that long ago, but I’ve fallen hard for him. It’s like I’ve known him—or, or, have <em>meant </em>to know him, all my life, you know? Is that crazy?”</p>
<p>“Not at all,” Katara assures.</p>
<p>Sokka nods. He sucks in a deep breath. “I just…don’t understand him at all. His whole thing with his family, and…and lying about listening to the podcast.” Sokka glances over at his bag, as if he could peer in and see Zuko’s <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>shirt at the top. He wasn’t sure why he stuck it in, but it felt wrong to leave it lying limply on Zuko’s dining table. It was as though he needed proof of the undeniable truth, or perhaps proof he’d been Zuko’s boyfriend long enough to do try to do his laundry before sequentially fucking up their entire relationship.</p>
<p>Though, he still can’t quite comprehend its sudden terminus. He can’t decide if it really <em>was </em>his fault.</p>
<p>“So you found out with the shirt?” Katara asks after a long pause; so long, Sokka forgot she quietly sipped her tea across from him.</p>
<p>“Yeah, and I was ready to confront him, but he came running into the apartment and then just started packing really quickly. I tried to get him to slow down, to talk to me, but he was determined to leave. He just shut down everything I said, and then broke up with me right before getting into his Uber,” Sokka recounts, as if saying it will somehow make the sting duller. It doesn’t. If anything, it hurts brighter and shaper. He tears his eyes from the duffel and back to Katara. “I just don’t understand any of it…why did he lie and not tell me?”</p>
<p> "I think he was embarrassed,” Katara replies, setting down her mug. “He told me that too much time had passed and now it’d just be awkward.”</p>
<p>“But he told me <em>everything </em>about his life…” Sokka begins before trailing off to nibble at his lip. Well, maybe not <em>everything; </em>he apparently withheld enough for it to come as a shock to Sokka for Zuko to shovel only the essentials into a bag and take a three-hour flight back to help his fucked-up family. There’s obviously something Sokka’s missing, <em>though, now, I’ll never find out what it is now, </em>he can’t help thinking.</p>
<p>“Maybe he was worried you’d be mad?” Katara suggests.</p>
<p>Sokka, startled from his thoughts, demands, “Why would I be—?" He bites off the question. He had shouted. Ducking his head as Katara blinks at him, Sokka mumbles, “Yeah, okay. Maybe I would be kind of mad, but not so much <em>mad</em>-mad, but more like annoyed and a little betrayed.”</p>
<p>“Has Zuko been punished by his loved ones for causing annoyance and ‘a little’ betrayal,” Katata prods.</p>
<p>Sokka snorts, thinking of Zuko’s manipulative father, how his sister had been in childhood, and he relents: “Yeah, I guess so.” Pause. “Damn, have you been getting tips from Aang, or something? You’re like my therapist.”</p>
<p>“Did someone say my name?” Aang’s voice precedes him in, appearing from the hallway leading to the bedrooms. His backpack is slung over his shoulders, and Sokka can see it’s stuffed with clothes, overnight supplies, and an extra pair of shoes. Dropping the backpack on the couch, Aang comes over to loo his arms around Sokka, giving him a shoulder-hug, before sliding into an open chair. “How are you holding up?”</p>
<p>Peeling his eyes from the backpack—<em>why was Aang getting his stuff from back there? He usually sleeps on the couch if he spends the night, </em>Sokka thinks, though he doesn’t have the mental capacity to puzzle it out right then —Sokka tries to return Aang’s little grin. It must be a pained, defeated expression because Aang’s eyebrows march together. Sokka offers, “I guess I’m as okay as I can be, considering I’m having major relationship whiplash. I was dating my dream man for a little over twelve hours and then he dumps me after I realize he’s lied to me <em>and </em>he doesn’t care that I have legitimate reasons to worry about him.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” Aang replies, folding together his long fingers on the counter. He leans forward onto his palms. “A classic case of social awkwardness and an extreme lack of confidence generating misunderstandings in meaningful relationships.”</p>
<p>Now it’s Sokka’s turn to furrow his eyebrows. “Wait, me? I have a lack of confidence?”</p>
<p>Katara snorts. “Nobody has ever you accused you of that.”</p>
<p>“No, I meant Zuko, sorry,” Aang corrects. “Clocked it the second I met him. I know I probably shouldn’t expose him like this, as a medical professional—"</p>
<p> “Do it anyway,” Sokka prompts.</p>
<p>Aang tosses him a grin. “<em>But, </em>I’m pretty sure Zuko has social anxiety. My guess is from childhood trauma. He has all the hallmarks that my patients display, except progressed a lot farther than I usually see since he’s, you know, an adult. My guess is that he kept you at arm’s length using an excuse before letting you in suddenly because of the other stressors in his life? Like family stress, which probably is the root-cause of the anxiety in the first place?”</p>
<p>“Damn, wow, yeah; that’s exactly right,” Sokka admits, pulled out of his spiraling emotions to stare at Aang. <em>I guess I knew my best friend was smart, but not like a Sherlock Holmes detective, </em>Sokka thinks before resolving to start seeing a therapist, if they’re as perceptive as Aang. “He kept citing how he could get in trouble if we got into a relationship, as a doctor and patient.”</p>
<p>“But apparently he got over that worry,” Katara mutters into her tea mug.</p>
<p>Aang, meanwhile, wears worry on his face, as if it’s graying his skin. “Yeah, that’s actually kind of a big deal. He might be sued in civil court if the wrong person found out. But did he really explain why he suddenly decided to date you?”</p>
<p>Sokka shakes his head, staring down at the faintly steaming surface of his tea. He takes a tentative sip, finding it tolerably hot. Trying to buy himself time, he swallows down a mouthful. Why had Zuko suddenly decided to date him? Granted, it had been Sokka’s suggestion, but Zuko had agreed without citing the potential of a malpractice lawsuit and he had been practically radiating happiness the entirety of last night. Asking him had felt natural, but Sokka should have backed off, <em>even though Zuko’s an adult and should have communicated if I was taking things a step too far. </em>Not that it really stopped Zuko and Sokka from kissing on the Lake Michigan beach or Sokka from staying over at Zuko’s apartment.</p>
<p>“I’m not really sure,” Sokka admits. “It just kind of…happened.” Pinking, he refuses to admit he didn’t give Zuko time to expound with the amount of making out they did the remainder of the night.</p>
<p>Aang hums thoughtfully. Then: “Well, obviously it sucks ass he didn’t tell you about listening, because he totally could’ve been a guest on the show. Can you imagine how much he would’ve fallen in love with you? Or fallen <em>more </em>in love with you?”</p>
<p>Sokka flinches, Katara clears her throat, and the mischievous grin slips from Aang’s face. “Right, um, sorry. Poorly timed joke. But what are you going to do?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Katara prompts.</p>
<p>Aang doesn’t expand, keeping careful watch on Sokka as he gulps down more tea. Sokka can <em>feel </em>Aang’s eyes searing into him, and he chugs his tea to generate the required precious few seconds needed to settle on a reply: “Well, I guess I’m not going to do anything. Zuko made it pretty clear he doesn’t want to deal with me right now. So, I’m not going to bother him. He can go deal with all his family stress.”</p>
<p>Sokka tries to harden his words, will his heart to stone, but he feels each syllable he pronounces as a stab to the gut. No matter his grand declarations, he knows Zuko took his heart with him to Texas and Sokka can’t bring himself to want it back.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The Dallas-Forth Worth Airport is one of those sleek monuments of modernity and efficiency: all reflective linoleum, clean edges, and signs written in sans serif font. It’s outfitted in the latest conveniences—Chipotles in every concourse, air-blade hand dryers in the bathrooms, and five-storied domed ceilings that allow for little cities populated by jetlagged travelers—as a brick-and-mortar love letter to innovation.  After flying from the gray buildings of Chicago, with its belching smokestacks of industry and highways like clogged arteries, Zuko feels as though the newness, the largeness, could swallow him up.</p>
<p><em>But then, everything </em>is <em>bigger in Texas, </em>Zuko thinks; ironically, in childhood, he used to think that phrase was a compliment. Now, he’s not so sure.</p>
<p>He finds his mother at the luggage claim. She looks serene, a single island of stillness in a sea of flailing and scuttling and bag-claiming; she looks as though she unequivocally belongs, even though she’s spent even less time in Texas than Zuko has over the past nine years.</p>
<p>A smile unfolds across her mouth, stretching her ruby red lips wide to show off her expensive teeth. “Zuko!” she calls, holding her arms out and taking the necessary steps to close the distance between them. It’s odd sight: a woman wearing Christian Louboutin heels and a custom Kuho dress running to meet her son. But then, Ursa has always strived for nonconformity.</p>
<p>Zuko stoops to allow Ursa to hug him—even with the heels, she’s barely to his chin—and he breaths in her familiar Dior perfume and the underlying notes of her favorite detergent, smiling into her shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Mom,” he manages once he’s sure his voice won’t crack with emotions.</p>
<p> He’s very proud of himself: he only <em>slightly </em>sounds like he’s going to cry.</p>
<p>She squeezes tighter before drawing back. Touching a hand to his unblemished cheek, her eyes seeming to scrub his face, she says, “You too, baby. It’s been too long.”</p>
<p>And though it’s only been three months since the Sozin family Christmas party (only immediate family invited this year), Zuko finds himself nodding. “It has.”</p>
<p>She smiles, looking into his eyes as if searching for something. Zuko stares back, wondering if he ought to be doing something, but she must find what she hunted for, because she pats his cheek once before dropping her hands. “Do you have any other bags?”</p>
<p>“No, just the carry-on.” He vaguely gestures at the duffel slung over his shoulder.</p>
<p> “Good, let’s get going, then. I did valet parking,” she informs him, taking up his hand and leading like he’s a little boy from the arrivals’ terminal and into the dull chill of a Texan April day. The sky hangs with fluffy clouds, the blue an indifferent sort-of-eggshell, like it can’t quite be bothered to be properly robin blue. Though it’s a relief to not feel like the cold bites his skin, he misses the deep azure-blue of a cold Illinois spring day. Ursa twitters on: “We’ll go to Torchy’s before I drop you off.”</p>
<p>Ignoring the twinge his heart gives—she remembers, even after all these years, Zuko’s favorite restaurant—Zuko asks, “I’m being dropped off? Where?”</p>
<p>“At the house,” Ursa replies simplistically after handing her valet ticket to the overly eager young man waiting at the stand. He goes jogging off like it’s imperative that Ursa gets her car in three seconds, flat. “It’s for the best you stay there. You can gather intelligence for me, as it were.” She winks like it’s a marvelous lark to sleep in the family home, to share the same roof as Ozai.</p>
<p>Swallowing down the sudden panic roiling in his chest, Zuko asks, “But what about you? Where are you staying?”</p>
<p>“I can’t possibly tell you, or I’d have to kill you,” she teases, a smile playing on her lips. Zuko stiffens: even though he’s rusty from passing years, he’s still an expert at reading his mother’s smiles. Though she keeps her tone light, her eyes dancing with humor, a rawness lurks in the subtext; a saturnine edge hardens her joke into truth.</p>
<p>Zuko frowns down at his shoes but doesn’t push her until a sleek black Tesla is pulled around and the valet hops out. After Ursa hands over a flash of green—she’s the sort of rich where exchanging a one-dollar tip is a matter of subtly and a single handshake—they clamber in. The interior carries the stench of new leather and extreme wealth. Zuko can’t get himself to relax, even as they ease into the outflow of airport traffic and merge onto the six-lane brown-cement highway. Dallas-Fort Worth stretches out around them for miles, a quilt of new neighbors and big box stores, sprawling networks of streets, and characterless suburbia.</p>
<p>Ursa breaks the silence. “Turn off your phone for me, would you?”</p>
<p>Zuko frowns, glancing at her to see if she’s serious, but she keeps her eyes trained on the interstate. Seriousness purses her lips into a thin line. Remembering his mother’s paranoia and hoping for answers if he complies, Zuko does at as told. Only then does Ursa seem to relax, allowing her veneer to slip. “I’m sorry for all the secrecy, Zuko, but it’s really for your safety as much as it is for mine. Your father wants me dead, I think. Well, wants me <em>more </em>dead than he already did.”</p>
<p>Zuko chuckles dryly: it had been the worst kept secret of his childhood. Ozai only married Ursa for her family’s money and connections. Yet, a pre-nuptial agreement forced him to stay in the marriage: if he initiated divorce, he wouldn’t get a dime of her wealth.</p>
<p>“So, you’re saying you were the whistleblower?” Zuko asks. At her surprised glance, he answers the unspoken question: “I didn’t know for sure, but I guess you just confirmed it. Azula was the one who made the guess.”</p>
<p>“You’ve seen her recently?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, she came to see me in Chicago. I think Father intended to use her to apply pressure to me over the whole lordilone debacle.” Zuko doesn’t miss how Ursa flinches or how regret darkens her expression. “Turns out all he really succeeded in was letting Azula and I have a heart-to-heart about how much we despise him.” Zuko says this without too much acidity; he decides it’s a sign of his maturity.</p>
<p>“Well, I’m glad. I haven’t seen her since the holidays,” Ursa returns.</p>
<p>“But she’s been living in Dallas; she came back here once the whistleblower case broke,” Zuko returns. He knows he should ease up on the accusatory tone—especially if he hopes to get some answers from her—but it’s difficult to keep a lid on his sudden flare of annoyance.</p>
<p>“I know,” Ursa relents, reaching across the center console to squeeze Zuko’s fingers. “But I’ve been hiding from Ozai. I worried that Azula would still be more loyal to him, even if she does hate him now, as you say.”</p>
<p>“We’re at the point that any enemy of Father’s is our friend,” Zuko observes as they change lanes to pass a slow-moving semi. Glancing at the dashboard, he sees they’re cruising along at 85 mph. He forgot how much he hated Dallas drivers.</p>
<p>Ursa nibbles her lip. Then: “That’s encouraging to hear.”  She sounds deeply ponderous, trying to absorb the revelation that Azula might not be Ozai’s puppet. Zuko can empathize. They continue down the interstate for a few minutes, Ursa reclaiming her hand to focus on driving. As they switch onto 114, Ursa finally addresses what Zuko was puzzling over how to raise: “I’ve been waiting to blow the whistle on Ozai’s back-room dealings for years. Maybe the entirety of our marriage.”</p>
<p>“What stopped you?” Zuko asks into the following silence.</p>
<p>She casts him a sad smile. “You and Azula. If I turned in your father, the entirety of my money and all you two would inherit would go down with the company. You’d be penniless, not to mention ruined, and it would be my fault. I couldn’t live with that.”</p>
<p>Zuko bites back the observation that she’d done precisely that.</p>
<p>She continues: “What I had to do was file for divorce successfully before all that happened.”</p>
<p>“But you still wouldn’t get anything out of Ozai,” Zuko observes as the freeway trickles into Belt Line and they ease to a stop at the first in a series of stoplights. He’d been drilled in all aspects of the pre-nuptial agreement by his father as a ‘lesson on how to handle women’ back in middle school. Other than coming away with a revulsion for Ozai’s perspective and a deep belief in feminism, Zuko intimately knew the nuances of the contract.</p>
<p>“Yes, unless I had undeniable proof Ozai is physically abusive,” she replies, before rolling back the sleeve of her dress, revealing deep bruises scoring her wrists. It looks undeniably like the type of marks fingers would make. She allows Zuko to stare at it for a long before she rolls her sleeve back down. The light changes. They lurch forward. “And I kept waiting, sadistically hoping I could get something I could document. You know as well as I do how clever and sneaky he is with his abuse.”</p>
<p>Zuko mutely nods, refusing to allow the dark memories brim to the front of his mind; <em>I can’t go there right now.</em></p>
<p>“But then I realized I had to do something that would make him drop his guard.”</p>
<p>“Ergo, whistleblowing,” Zuko fills in.</p>
<p>“Exactly. I had to get a reaction out of him so that I could file for divorce with the proof of physical abuse ending the marriage,” Ursa says. “I changed my will so you and Azula would be my sole benefactors before I set my plan into motion.”</p>
<p>“But why did you—?” Zuko begins to ask before realization dawns on him. “You disappeared so you could come down here and take Ozai by surprise, didn’t you?”</p>
<p>Ursa nods. “Yes, exactly. I had to catch him when he was still reeling from the whistleblower scandal breaking so he wouldn’t be careful. I…” She swallows past a sudden tremor in her voice. “It was the angriest I’ve ever seen him. I thought he would seriously…that he might kill…” She can’t finish the thought. It’s Zuko’s turn to reach across the console and take her hand. She casts him a grateful smile. Still, it takes a dragging few moments to gather her courage to continue. “Anyway, so I’ve filed for divorce.”</p>
<p>“But this still doesn’t resolve the problem of the company losing all of its assets before we can extract them,” Zuko points out.</p>
<p>Ursa’s smile stretches wide. “That’s where you come in, my darling. I asked you down so you can put pressure onto your Father to agree to the divorce without trying to fight me in court. He has to agree before the Phoenix Pharma investigation can start.”</p>
<p>“Me? Put pressure on him?” Zuko splutters. “But how?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s very easy,” Ursa assures, “You just have to threaten him with what he fears the most.”</p>
<p>Zuko can only stare as his mother explains her scheme, dumbstruck: until thirty-seconds ago, he’d been entirely unaware Ozai could even feel fear.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Ursa deposits Zuko at the front steps to the family mansion in Highland Park with a Torchy’s bag—his chicken tacos inside—in hand. The kiss she pressed into his cheek feels like a brand, or a lucky charm charging him with enough courage to bully his shaking legs up the steps and into the house.</p>
<p><em>My home, </em>he thinks, staring up at it, though he’s not been delusional enough to call it that since he was eighteen-years-old. More Provençal chateau than Texan ranch house, the Alice Circle house has been main residence of the Sozin family since it was constructed back in 1925, built on the oil money great-grandfather struck by undercutting everyone he could. Ivy scales the gray brick, threading up past the Elizabethan cross-hatched windows and grasping toward the peaked gables. Somewhere to Zuko’s right, he can hear the faint splash of the fountain feeding into the koi pond, the trees sighing as the spring breeze rushes through, and he feels forced back to prepubescence looking at his childhood home.</p>
<p>Of course, he’s been back since, but he can’t shake the strange sense of reliving the day he came home from fifth grade with a B- on his report card and a wily scheme to keep it from his father. His plans had failed then and, Zuko can’t help but wonder if they’d fail again.</p>
<p>The arched, wood door swings in and Azula comes striding out. She’s aged three years in as many days. With strands of silky black hair falling from her usually neat bun, she looks desperate. Then, she shoves her phone under his nose as she snaps: “<em>Please</em> tell me you weren’t dumb enough to <em>kiss </em>a patient in public.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As if there was any doubt in anyone's minds, Ozai definitely proves he's deserving of the Worst Father of the Year award.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>All my love and thanks to my beta, @cinnamoncookies, as ever!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Alice Circle house’s kitchen, unlike the rest of the house, isn’t cavernous. Its fern-green cabinets are inlayed with panels, its marble cluttered with appliances, and its windows hung with red-checkered curtains. It seems more like a kitchen where fairies and gnomes might brew elderberry wine or bake blackberry pies than where Ozai might fry an egg. Of course, Zuko doubts Ozai knows how to fry an egg.</p>
<p>Zuko makes a business of arranging his tacos, guacamole, and side of chips onto a plate; even though it’s been eleven years since Ursa ruled this kitchen—and she insisted they always eat their take-out of real flatware—her influence is still obviously apparent, Zuko feels she’d somehow know and be disappointed if he ate his tacos out of the bag. And, if fussing with his taco arrangement acts as a convenient cover for ignoring Azula’s steadily darkening glower, then it’s an added bonus.</p>
<p>Azula, after a handful of silent seconds, begins to ready the coffee machine, breaking the silence to ask: “Want some?”</p>
<p>“Decaf or regular?” Zuko asks, folding his hands together on the counter. Now that his food is s all laid out, he finds he’s lost his appetite. He dares to peak at Azula’s expression; she has a face like thunder.</p>
<p>“Regular, obviously,” she drawls. “I’m going to have to head back to the office because of your little SNAFU.”</p>
<p>Zuko doesn’t ask what the acronym stands for; he gets the vibe well enough to cringe and stare down at his tacos hard. “I know you’re mad, but don’t you think it’s a little unreasonable for me to have predicted this? I mean, what father has a private investigator tail his son?”</p>
<p>Azula laid out the situation in characteristically blunt detail as they wend their way through the house and to the kitchen: since Zuko’s agreement to falsify the lordilone clinical trial results—and his  subsequent hesitation—Ozai hired a private investigator to follow Zuko’s every movement, taking photos of anything that might be deemed ‘of interest.’ Azula confronted Zuko with pictures of him laughing with Sokka at Graceland Cemetery, chattering over a bowl of ramen, and then kissing him on North Avenue Beach. She explained she’d acted as intermediate, Ozai not paying the P.I. directly to avoid liability issues, but it’d be a matter of time before he saw and Zuko’s shit is completely rocked.</p>
<p>Not to imply it hasn’t <em>already </em>been rocked.</p>
<p>Snorting, Azula fires back pragmatically: “It’s astounding, really, that you assume Ozai is normal in anyway.”</p>
<p>Zuko huffs in defeated agreement.</p>
<p>“I just—” she bursts before shaking her head, visibly repressing her anger. In a tightly regulated voice, she begins again, “I just want you to walk me through what you were thinking—<em>if </em>you were thinking at all.”</p>
<p>Zuko lifts one shoulder, then the other. Belatedly, he realizes it’s the same shrug Sokka does. “It was a moment of weakness, but I think we acted on feelings we’d been having ever since we met. It was all so emotionally charged and kissing him felt like the only right thing I could possibly do. Like it might save me.”</p>
<p>Azula watches him, an odd look on her face, and Zuko wishes he knew her well enough to decode what the slight head slant meant, the pursed lips, the furrowing eyebrow. When she replies after switching on the coffee machine and it begins to gurgle, her words are quiet: “I think I know what you mean. Sometimes I wonder if we were so starved for affection when we were kids, that when we finally find it, we tried to drown ourselves in it. We go all-in all at once, like we <em>want </em>it to control us.”</p>
<p>Zuko nods once, twice, letting the observation wash over him. It’s a feeling he’s never been able to formulate into words, but hearing Azula articulate it, he can’t help but feel its rightness resonating in his chest. <em>Did I actually like Sokka, or did I like that he liked me? </em>Zuko wonders briefly, before a pain—like a stab in the gut—shoots through him. <em>No, there’s no way; I wouldn’t feel so empty if I didn’t like him. </em></p>
<p>But what did it matter if Zuko’s feelings were genuine now? What did it matter when they were broken up and Ozai would explode over the proof that Zuko is gay? Only Azula’s obedience and perfection saved her from annihilation when her sexuality was exposed; Zuko has no favoritism to rely on. He’s a dead man walking.</p>
<p>“But what are we going to do? When Father finds out I dated Sokka, he’ll…I don’t know how, but it’ll get so much worse…” Zuko trails off, gnawing his lip, looking at Azula’s grave expression. He’d never seen her look so hopeless; without a fire in her eyes and a scheme brewing in her mind. “Mom…Mom said she had a plan.”</p>
<p>Zuko had explained his presence in Dallas with a simplistic: ‘Mom asked me to come.’ To Azula’s credit, she blinked only once before taking it into stride. Unlike Zuko, she seemed to find it immediately believable that Ursa would ‘hide out’ right under Ozai’s nose. Now, she rolls her eyes and tsks her tongue. “Oh please. That woman’s never had a spine and now you think we should fall back on her plan like a lifeline? We’d be placing all our hope on a coward.”</p>
<p>“But what else is there to do?” Zuko exclaims. “I know you don’t trust her and, honestly, I don’t either, but she also leaked about the insider-trading and collected enough proof to file for divorce. Isn’t that proof she might be on to something?”</p>
<p>“Being ‘on to something’ and ‘outsmarting Ozai enough to not destroy our lives’ are two very different things,” Azula returns dryly.</p>
<p>“But what if she has proof that he was the one to burn me?” Zuko blurts. Ursa swore to not tell anyone, even Azula who Zuko vouched for, but desperation forces the admission out.</p>
<p>Silence. Azula staring at him. The coffee machine beeps, signaling its done, and pours herself a mug. “How?” Azula asks softly.</p>
<p>Zuko flinches, his eyes fluttering closed. The gruesome picture Ursa’s description painted of hovering at a wounded seventeen-year-old Zuko’s bedside as Ozai paid off doctors and police, had reawakened his repressed memories. Yet, he can’t be squeamish or delicate now. He forces out: “She claims to have found a paper trial archived in the company as well as one of the doctors who treated me. She says this doctor will agree to testify against Ozai and get him locked up.”</p>
<p>Azula nods slowly, sipping at the piping hot liquid, not even flinching at the heat even though it must burn her tongue. “But what’s the point?” she finally asks.</p>
<p>“Huh?” Zuko croaks, not expecting his reaction.</p>
<p>“What’s the point if he’s already going to be on trial as a business owner; the Feds are going to try to get every penny out of him,” Azula expands.</p>
<p>“Because Mom wants to make sure the divorce papers are signed before the investigation can begin, and the only way to do that is by threatening Ozai with something he fears most,” Zuko says, repeating the words his mother said not an hour ago.</p>
<p>A perfectly plucked eyebrow raises into an arch. “Which is what?”</p>
<p>“His own reputation being ruined,” Zuko explains. “People can come back from insider-trading, look at Martha Stewart, but not men who give their sons third-degree burns. He’ll be ruined, instead of just getting a slap on the wrist from this investigation, unless he agrees to the divorce right now.”</p>
<p>Azula nods, understanding dawning across her face. “She has evidence he’s abusive, doesn’t she? She’s changed the will so we’ll inherit everything?”</p>
<p>“Yes, exactly,” Zuko replies.</p>
<p>Nursing her coffee, she’s quiet for a long time. A low admission: “This is big. I still don’t trust Mom, but she…she might be…” She trails off, gnawing at her lower lip. “I need to go check this, see if I can dig up what she dug up. If her sources aren’t credible, there’s not point pinning our hopes on this. I really need to go back to the office.”</p>
<p>Zuko grins, beginning to scoot his chair back. “Great! I’ll come to help!”</p>
<p>“Absolutely not. You need to eat and go to bed; you caused enough problems for one day,” Azula retorts. “I still have to run damage control, and it’d be easier doing that and digging through the archives without worrying you’re going to run across Father in the elevator, or something. I want you to stay in your room until I come back.”</p>
<p><em>Shunted aside so my baby sister can save my scrawny ass—can save </em>all <em>of our asses, </em>Zuko thinks, <em>what else is new? </em>Yet, a tiny part of him desperately wants Azula to champion his cause, to go toe-to-toe with Ozai for him and Ursa and everyone in the family, and maybe—<em>just maybe—</em>win where Zuko would only fail. Ursa had placed too much trust in Zuko to enact her plan, but Zuko wouldn’t make the same mistake; he couldn’t trust himself. Not when he could rely on Azula to act instead.</p>
<p>“And what will you do?” he asks.</p>
<p>“I need to go back to the office and see if I can bury this,” Azula replies, tapping a manicured fingernail on her phone to indicate the photos. “And start digging. I doubt I’ll find it tonight. Father is usually good about hiding his more unsavory business.” She pauses as she chugs down the rest of her coffee. Around a deep breath, she tacks: “Then we need to plan what we’ll say to the FBI on Saturday.”</p>
<p>“Like…<em>lie?” </em>Zuko splutters.</p>
<p>“More like tell curated half-truths,” Azula corrects with a sardonic smile curving her lips, as if there’s a grain of humor in this entire mess. Zuko tamps down a surge of panic threatening to climb out of his chest and seize him entirely. Staring down at his tacos, he knows two things for certain: he’s suddenly feeling far too queasy to even <em>think </em>of eating and he desperately wants to confide his every emotion in Sokka.</p>
<p>He wants Sokka to hold him, to kiss him, and make him believe it might get better.</p>
<p>(But even he will admit it might be too far past the point of deluding himself with lies.)</p>
<hr/>
<p>[Text conversations retrieved from Zuko Sozin’s phone]</p>
<p>2:23 AM, Thursday April 4<sup>th</sup></p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>What’s more pathetic: Sitting here watching you type and retype a message or the fact that I’m actually here to watch it?</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>I’d say we’re equally as pathetic</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I guess we can agree on that.</p>
<p>2:47 AM</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>what were you typing and retyping about</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>family drama. I wanted to tell you, but then remembered you have every right to say ‘I told you so’ to me</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Ngl, I’m hurt that you think I’d ever say ‘I told you so’ like a complete dick</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>I know. I’m sorry.</p>
<p>3:04 AM</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Sokka, I’m seriously so sorry.</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>I know I was pretty much an afterthought in your life; like I dumped a bunch of emotional stuff on you even though we only knew each other for a few weeks and I’m really sorry for all of that. I haven’t really been in the right mental space, and I used you as a crutch. It wasn’t fair to drag you into this</p>
<p>3:13 AM</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>I’m really sorry.</p>
<p>3:18 AM</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>You know what, you’re a combination of self-deprecating and egotistical. You act like you’re a burden on me and everyone around you—like you’re not worthy of love or whatever. But you never consider that it’s all an ego-protection-thing that lets you keep people at arm’s length, or lets you have a disclaimer in case you’re a dick to someone.</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I confided some pretty heavy shit in you, too, so don’t act like you just dumped all this baggage on me and I was like drowned or something underneath. Don’t discredit my feelings for you. It’s the last decent thing you can do.</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>I’m so sorry, Sokka. I was just trying to protect you</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>I’m not the one who needs protecting.</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>I’m sorry, you’re right</p>
<p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Please stop texting me</p>
<p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Okay, sorry. I won’t anymore [Error: message not sent; trying to text a number that has blocked you]</p>
<hr/>
<p>If Zuko hadn’t been convinced before that the world is ending, now he’s sure of it: when he blurrily creeps down the stairs to the kitchen the next morning, five sleepless hours after texting Sokka for probably the last time, he finds Ozai frying an egg.</p>
<p>All Zuko’s sleep-deprived mind can conjure is a single: <em>huh. </em></p>
<p>For one dragging second, Zuko stands frozen in the doorjamb, staring at his father’s broad shoulders, his short black hair nearly combed, and his crisp white button-up tucked into ironed trousers. Zuko stares, knowing he could use this sliver of a moment to dart back upstairs, to run away and do as Azula told him—avoid Ozai at all costs—but the mundanity of Ozai tending a frying pan chases all rational thought from his mind. The sight so contradicts Zuko’s perception of Ozai (how he could never be bothered to cook for himself if he could instead bark at the hired chef to whip up a French culinary masterpiece), that Zuko briefly wonders if he’s wandered into some alternate reality. A universe where Ozai cared about things like family meal-times, or the quiet moments of daily life that compounded into family bonds, shared memories, and love; where Ozai actually came home often enough for Zuko to feel like he had a father instead of a landlord.</p>
<p>But the spell shatters: Ozai turns from the stovetop to slide his egg onto a waiting piece of toast smothered in mashed avocado. He catches sight of Zuko haunting the doorway, and if he’s surprised to see his son, he quickly smooths away a reaction.</p>
<p>Ozai goes to take down a travel tumbler from the cupboard, speaking after he’s filled the mug with fresh coffee from the machine. Zuko vaguely wonders who emptied the pot Azula made last night; if Ozai <em>knows </em>how to empty and properly clean a coffee machine. Without preamble, Ozai begins: “Who let you into the house?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t look at Zuko—Zuko’s never been important for Ozai’s attention—and it makes it manageable to reply, to lie. “I let myself in.”</p>
<p>“I’ve changed all the locks to get the undesirables out,” Ozai returns, edged with warning, implying Zuko had better tell the truth because he is one of the aforementioned ‘undesirables:’ locked out of his own childhood without a key. Zuko’s strangely flattered: his own father hates him enough to change all the locks on Alice Circle.</p>
<p>Yet, he won’t rat Azula out—not when he doesn’t know how much she’s allowed Ozai to know or not know—and instead takes a gamble: “Minnie let me in.” Minnie was the Sozin family’s housekeeper since Zuko could remember. He hasn’t seen her during family holidays, not when Ozai usually likes the staff to be ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ so it’s a gamble to name her. She may have been fired years ago.</p>
<p>The gamble pays off. Ozai’s lips tighten, like he’s sucking on a lemon candy, and he grumbles, “I will have to have a word with her.”</p>
<p>Zuko sends a silent apology to Minnie, hoping she’ll forgive him.</p>
<p>Another pause as Ozai retrieves a fork and knife and cuts into his toast. A great golden waterfall of yolk spills from the fried egg and Zuko bites the inside of his cheek. The last person he had eggs with was Sokka, eating languidly and conversing meanderingly; it seems so wrong for that to have only been two days ago. For Ozai to now be unwittingly mimicking the happiest forty-eight hours of Zuko’s life as if to mock him.</p>
<p>Ozai eats half of the toast before setting his cutlery onto the plate. Dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, he begins as if they had been in the middle of a conversation, “So, you know that I’ve directed the FBI to those lordilone approval forms.” It’s a statement of fact, as if rehashing something Zuko should have already known, and Zuko knows how to play this game: he knows he must master his expression and not give Ozai the shock he fishes for.</p>
<p>“And they’ll see I’ve sent in withdrawal forms,” Zuko says.</p>
<p>Ozai tilts his head, his gold eyes flicking up to consider his son. Zuko used to be so proud of having inherited his father’s eyes. Now, he sometimes fantasizes about gauging them out, only so that he can avoid seeing Ozai stare back at him every time he looks in the mirror. Now, Ozai gives a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps they might, or perhaps they’ll never finds them.”</p>
<p>Zuko feels his blood run cold, his tongue dry. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Oh, sorry, I forget you’re too brainless to keep up with subtleties,” Ozai snips. Zuko stares down hard his hands, balled into tight fists as his sides. He feels like an indignant twelve-year-old again, brimming with rage but too cowed to talk back. “I <em>mean </em>that I’ve bought people in the FDA. I was going to have them approve the lordilone, but now they’re doing something far more…satisfying, shall we say? They’ve destroyed your withdrawal papers.”</p>
<p>Zuko’s eyes snap back to Ozai. He can’t contain his reaction this time, not caring how Ozai smirks with clear satisfaction at his son’s paling skin, his rounding eyes, his mouth hanging open with shock. “Destroyed?” Zuko breaths.</p>
<p>“You tried to cover yourself after you deliberately lied and went against me and I cannot stand for it.” Ozai lets the seconds slither past as he cuts another bite of avocado toast, his fork ferrying it to his mouth without ever breaking eye contact with Zuko. As if there’s power in eating avocado toast, as if he’s scripted exactly how this scene will play out and it’s going precisely as planned. Pushing aside the plate, Ozai shrugs on his sports jacking and moves to pass Zuko in the archway*.</p>
<p>He draws even with Zuko’s shoulder before pausing, hesitating. Zuko can feel his father’s eyes boring into him—starting at the unblemished half of his face—as if he might sear holes into his skin.</p>
<p>Then, between one blink and the next, Ozai’s hand slams into Zuko’s face, spanning his skull, and slams him into the doorjamb. White-pain bolts through Zuko’s brain, sending his brain spinning and his vision spotting. Years of living with Ozai, and the survival instincts trained into him because of it, keep the mewl of pain from rushing out of his throat. He grits his teeth against the ache of impact, the crushing grip of Ozai’s hand.</p>
<p>A hot breath gusts of his cheek, his nose. Zuko squishes his eyes shut as Ozai leans close to hiss: “It’s just a lesson in consequences, Zuko. You proved you didn’t want to be my son, so you will get what’s coming to you without me to run to or hide behind. If you won’t act like my son, then you won’t be my son.” Ozai leans away, his full body weight behind the push leveraging himself away and into the recesses of the Alice Circle house.</p>
<p>Without Ozai pinning him upright, Zuko crumples to the floor, cradling his head in his arms and gritting his teeth, forcing himself to focus on anything but the scorching pain lancing through his head. He’s so consumed by the physical pain and mental turmoil, he almost doesn’t register the meaning behind Ozai’s parting words: “I’ve disowned you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*The author feels the reader would be glad to know Ozai forgot his coffee tumbler and had a raging headache from caffeine deprivation for most of the morning. However, the reader would be saddened to know Ozai took out his temper by shouting at Jin the intern.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Zuko manages to trundle back up the stairs, stumbling over the steps and sliding his shoulder along the wall to keep upright. It must be instinct, though, that guides his feet. When he returns to his senses, lying face down on the cream carpet of his childhood room, he doesn’t actually remember how he collected himself off the kitchen floor and got back here.</p>
<p>He devotes twenty minutes to pondering this curiosity, before he finally feels slightly less miserable. At least, enough so he can clamber onto his bed and curl into a ball there.</p>
<p><em>I’m such a coward; why didn’t I throw the proof he burned me at him? Why didn’t I say </em>something <em>to defend myself? Because I’m a goddamn coward, that’s why, </em>Zuko thinks, the same resolute truth he’s been churning in his head over and over again. He’d stood mute, gaping and defenseless, as Ozai pronounced his death sentence; he didn’t even try to speak or throw the ammunition Ursa loaded him with; he’d been a passive observer to his own fate. Somehow, he’d hoped Azula making the kissing photos go away and digging for confirmation of his burning incident, or that Ursa’s divorce settlement scheme, would save him from the Ozai’s wrath. Yet, it had left him limp and lily-livered for the actual confrontation.</p>
<p>He’d said nothing, offered no retort or defense, and simply allowed his professional career’s life to be put to death. And why should he be surprised? He defaulted to the spineless, weak son Ozai knew and expected him to be.</p>
<p><em>And what if Azula isn’t successful? What if Mom isn’t? </em>Zuko demands of himself. Azula might be able to contrive a situation where Zuko’s transgression—or, it might be better to say <em>other </em>transgression—never reaches Ozai’s desk, but Ursa’s plans are dead in the water without confirmation of Ozai’s crimes or Zuko summoning the courage to pull the metaphorical trigger. It he doesn’t try to intimidate Ozai as if the man could actually feel fear, they’re all lost. But then, Ursa chose the wrong person: she thought Zuko brave.</p>
<p> <em>But I’m nothing but a coward, </em>he forces himself to think, like he’s holding himself to a flame and telling himself he deserves to be burned, exactly as Ozai had back when he held Zuko’s face into the hearth at the family’s ski lodge.</p>
<p>A rattling breath. He wriggles a hand free to touch a finger to the mottled skin on his face. <em>But I guess that’s not anything new. </em>It’s been a constant fact of life: Zuko is a pawn, a coward, an observer of his own existence.</p>
<p>Fitting his palms together, knitting his fingers together, he curls in tighter on himself and lets his thoughts pull him down under their weight, their gloom, their depression. When the afternoon sun begins to slant long shadows of trees in through his window, Zuko uncurls himself only to paw for his phone. He goes to Spotify and queues up <em>Cryptid: Decoded.</em></p>
<p>He knows it’s sadism, to want to hear Sokka’s voice right now, but he also can’t bear the thought of being alone. And as he listens, listening to episode after episode, hours on end of Aang and Sokka bantering about Sasquatches and men in gorilla costumes, Zuko feels a fracture fissuring through his heart. He feels a web of cracks springing out, breaking him apart, and crushing him.</p>
<p>Zuko’s known despair, known desperation, but he now realizes with a shuddering breath that seems to stop his lungs, he’s never before had absolutely nothing to lose.</p>
<p>The realization leaves him liberated.</p>
<p>Rolling onto his back, starting up at the glow-in-the-dark stars he stuck on his ceiling (what seems like) lifetimes ago, Zuko draws in one rattling breath, and wonders when the Alice Circle air began tasting so sweet. His lungs feel scrubbed, his chest scooped out of all brief. He grabs for his phone and, while still listening to the podcast, he begins composing an email.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Alright, for our final piece of fan mail this evening, we have a question from ‘@moon.ixi’…which, is that a Neopet?” Aang says into his mic, swiveling his recording chair to toss a wide grin at Sokka. It’s such a softball pitch of a joke, he’s sure Sokka will swing for it; will riff off the joke and say something hilarious and clever and certifiably <em>Sokka. </em></p>
<p>Yet, all Aang gets out of a Sokka is a shrug and a detached, “Huh, not sure.”</p>
<p>Aang barely bites back a sigh; after slogging through thirty minutes of recording the new ‘Chew and Chat’ episodes (the menu du jour: soup dumplings) and getting tepid responses at best, Aang shouldn’t have expected better. He knows the listeners will instantly hear something’s wrong with Sokka, he knows there will be a maelstrom of comments and emails to wade through (they got about three hundred comments on when Aang had been out for a cold, Aang can only imagine how an unhappy Sokka won’t go over well with their snoopy following), but he also knows Sokka <em>needs </em>this.</p>
<p>Ever since the break-up on Wednesday, and the text conversation early Thursday morning,* Sokka has become a shade of himself. He drifts uninterestedly from one room to the next, not bothering to shower or change out of his pajamas. Aang had been sure Sokka was about to punch him when he suggested they go to the Jasmine Dragon to plan out the next few episodes of <em>Cryptid: Decoded. </em>Yet, when Aang suggested they post an announcement saying and apologizing for no ‘Chew and Chat’ episode this week, Sokka had shot down the idea with vehemence (it’d actually been a rather long rant-turned-lecture about ‘not letting people down,’ to the point Aang’s sure they no longer talked about the podcast but rather Zuko. Yet, being a good friend, Aang didn’t call Sokka out).</p>
<p>Aang clears his throat. “Anyway! @moon.ixi, says, ‘Hey Ghoul Bros! I’m a long-time listener of the show and firstly wanted to say how much I love getting to hear both about your guys’ lives <em>and </em>ghosts twice a week!’ Aw, thanks very much! We appreciate it. ‘My question is about the Graceland Cemetery: if you had to be buried with one of the monuments you guys saw, what would you pick?’ Huh, what a good question! There are a lot of really awesome tombstones we saw in the cemetery. That’s tough. What do you think, Sokka?”</p>
<p>“Huh?” Sokka croaks, he blinks at Aang with heavy eyelids, as if started out of sleep and a sigh does manage to escape from Aang’s lips this time. <em>This is going to need to be majorly cleaned up, </em>he thinks, not envying Sokka the hours of editing (that is, if he doesn’t become too comatose to actually do it). Rereading the email, Aang prompts him again. Sokka gives a slow nod. “Interesting. I think I’d go for ‘Eternal Silence,’ the Grim Reaper looking dude at Dexter Graves’ tombstone.”</p>
<p>“Aww, you stole mine,” Aang whine-teases. Sokka manages a crooked grin that manages to also be melancholic. “Is it allowed for us to both have the same answer? There’s something really menacing yet kind of comforting about that statue. If you don’t know what we’re talking about, definitely Google it.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Sokka adds dully.</p>
<p>Aang pops his mouth open, his eyes slithering over to Sokka, but air catches in his throat. He hesitates, giving another second for Sokka to expand, but silence reigns. “Well, anyway,” Aang drags out, knowing that trying to do one-sided banter will only turn this already weird episode into something painful. “That’s all we have for you today! Thanks so much for tuning in, Ghouligans! As ever, this podcast couldn’t be possible without you guys offering your ears and your support, so if you liked what you heard, please drop us a comment or smash that like button. Or, whatever they have on your preferred podcast platform. And, if you hated what you heard, we are sorry for offending your ears!”</p>
<p>Aang tries not to cringe too hard: the Ghouligans let Sokka and Aang know when they found any <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>wanting, and wow is this week’s episode going to be wanting.</p>
<p>"This has been Sokka—!” Aang says.</p>
<p>Silence.</p>
<p>He stares over at Sokka. His phone’s out, limp in his hand, and Sokka’s just <em>staring </em>at it. Aang scoots his chair slightly to stomp on Sokka’s phone.</p>
<p>Yipping, Sokka shouts, “What the hell was that for?”</p>
<p>Through gritted teeth, Aang repeats: “This has been Sokka!”</p>
<p>Flushing, chagrin heavying his face, Sokka finishes, “With my good buddy, Aang, and thanks for listening to this week’s episode of <em>Cryptid: Decoded, </em>Chew and Chat!”</p>
<p>They pause for a count of one, two, three, allowing for dead air to help the editing process before Sokka leans forward to switch off the recording equipment. He takes a few, dragging seconds to fiddle with the mics, unplugging cords, and ensuring the audio files rendered on the computer before muttering, “I’m really sorry, Aang.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Aang replies, and though he wants to prod and ask again if posting a lackluster ‘Chew and Chat’ is <em>really </em>what they want to be doing, he settles instead for: “It’s not your fault. A lot is on your mind.”</p>
<p>Sokka shakes his head. “It’s not really an excuse though, is it?”</p>
<p>Aang, unsure what answer Sokka fishes for, wisely remains silent.</p>
<p>Sliding his earphones off, Sokka stuff them back into their case more aggressively than necessary. He continues, “This whole Zuko thing—” He scowls and shakes his head, like his brain is an Etch-N-Sketch that he can clear of thoughts by shaking it enough. “Anyway, I got another email from <em>Ember. </em>and they’re asking for a decision. I’ve been really unprofessional about ignoring them, but I have to decide something.”</p>
<p>“Do you have an idea which way you’re leaning?” Aang prompts.</p>
<p>“Fuck if I know!” Sokka bursts, surging to his feet. He begins gestating wildly, as he always does when he’s riled up—or excited. Aang wishes it were the latter, wishes he knew a way to rescue Sokka from the pit of his mania and return him to his sunshine-self. “I want to stay here with you and Katara! You guys are my family, and after what happened…after what happened, I know I need you guys more than ever even if you don’t need me.”</p>
<p>Aang opens his mouth, ready to argue, but then thinks better of it. It’s a long conversation for another time. Nibbling his lip, he reaches for his phone on the desk crammed with recording equipment. He saw the email come in earlier while recording, but he hadn’t wanted to pause to show it to Sokka. More than that, he’s not sure if he wants to show Sokka an email signed ‘the Blue Spirit a.k.a Zuko Sozin.’ It might hurt more than help right then.</p>
<p>“But then part of me wants to run away to New York where I can start a new life and never have to chance running into…into Zuko…” Sokka presses his palms into his face, scrubbing hard at his eyes. He sighs before flopping back into his chair. He goes rolling about a foot. “Am I stupid?”</p>
<p>Aang doesn’t respond quickly enough for Sokka; he lowers his hands, scowling blurrily in his best friend’s general direction. “You can answer that honestly.”</p>
<p> “Of course not,” Aang blurts, before matching Sokka’s scowl with his own. “Why would I tell my best friend, someone who I consider my brother, that he’s stupid for reacting to grief really, <em>really </em>normally?”</p>
<p>"I don’t know!” Sokka exclaims, exasperated. He tosses his hands. “I mean, siblings tell each other they’re stupid all the time! But, like, out of love!”</p>
<p>His mouth twitching with a smile, Aang assents, “Okay, fine, I’ll lovingly tell you you’re stupid.”</p>
<p>Sokka huffs a laugh. It sounds suspiciously close to a sob. “Thanks, Aang.”</p>
<p>Aang nods, watching as Sokka sways himself back and forth in his chair. A lulling silence follows and Aang refuses to break it, determined to wait out the brooding quiet until Sokka has thoroughly sulked through his thoughts and wants to share. He opens the email on his phone, reading it properly now. Air catches in his throat, not realizing he’s holding his breath until he reaches the end. “Sokka.”</p>
<p>Sokka grunts.</p>
<p>“Sokka, you have to read this,” Aang reiterates, launching himself from his chair to shove his phone into Sokka’s hands.</p>
<p>Half-heartedly, Sokka shoves the phone back toward Aang, pushing at his insistent hands to bat them away, mumbling, “Get off, Aang, I don’t want to—” His eyes snag on the email’s sign-off. Transfixed, he accepts the phone back and begins to read.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*Aang would like the reader to know he was a good, supportive friend and had advised Sokka not to reply. </p>
<hr/>
<p>Uncle Iroh washes down the espresso machine, the last task on a long list of end-of-day chores, and he can already taste the savory roasted duck he plans to make for dinner. While it had been a slow day for a Thursday, he had spent much of his afternoon training a new employee—Pipsqueak—and while the boy seemed to catch up quickly, training always required more standing than Iroh’s was used to. A dull ache began in his bones around three o’clock, followed by a pain in his back.</p>
<p>He deserved the roasts duck, <em>and maybe a cup or two of sweet hibiscus tea, </em>he adds, deciding to do as the young folk do and ‘treat yo’self.’ He smiles at the thought, not able to keep from beginning to hum the snatches of a tune.</p>
<p>Setting aside the wash rag used especially for the espresso machine, Iroh goes to work at the little knot keeping his apron in place. It’s a blessing and curse how securely he ties on his aprons.</p>
<p>The mad jangle of the front door swinging open and Irog huffs a sigh. The tune dies on his tongue. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed!” he calls, emerging from the back section of the counter to peer around the Columbian bagged coffee bean display. He blinks, squinting for a moment, the late afternoon light to the back of three customers. “I’ll have to ask you to come back tomorrow—”</p>
<p>“We’re not here for the coffee,” calls back a familiar voice. Iroh’s vision settles and he finally recognizes Sokka, his sister, and his friend.</p>
<p>“Sokka!” Iroh greets, finally freeing himself of his apron. He drapes it over its assigned peg as he moves out from behind the counter. “So wonderful to see you, my boy! Where have you been? It seems like years since you have been in. Did you decidedanything about the…?” Iroh casts significant looks to Katara and Aang; Iroh could never be accused of being subtle.</p>
<p>Clicking his tongue, Sokka flaps his hands. “They know about the job interview, but that’s not what we’re here about!”</p>
<p>“Oh, well, could I fix you a cup of tea, then?” Iroh asks. While he had just finished cleaning up, he would always make exceptions for his favorite customers. Besides, maybe he could convince them to stay for dinner; it did get awfully tiresome to eat alone, especially when his nephew decided to spontaneously jetset off to Texas.</p>
<p>“Iroh, we didn’t come for tea—!” Sokka cuts himself off this a quick sigh, squashing his eyes shut. A deep breath then his lids fly open and, as if in the momentum of a flagging resolve, Sokka (kind of) shouts: “I’m in love with your nephew, Zuko, and he sent me a long email and I need your advice on what to do because you’re literally the only one in his family who knows him well enough to figure out what the hell he wants me to do!”</p>
<p>At some point during this confession, Iroh’s mouth hinges open. As Sokka’s words continue to wash over him, Iroh puzzles the sudden information together, filing in missing pieces of his nephew’s life: the party, the sudden cheerful text messages, the conspicuous absence around the tea shop. Yes, a secret boyfriend would certainly be the root cause, but it still left Iroh swimming in questions. Yet, a moment’s decision confirms that pumping Sokka for information as any nosy uncle ought to wouldn’t be pertinent. So, instead he asks, “What does this email say?”</p>
<p>It’s Aang who presents his phone with a single prompt: “Read.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>[Email retrieved from the <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>inbox]</p>
<p>Dear Sokka (and I’m guessing you’re reading this too, Aang),</p>
<p>Firstly, let me apologize for contacting you. I know you said not to text you anymore, and I assume that also goes for not emailing you. I promise to never contact you again in the future. I know I’ve been saying this a lot, but I’m sorry. I hope one day you can forgive me, though I understand if you never do, but if you ever want to have a conversation about everything that happened—and was felt—between us, please reach out. I’ll always want to talk to you.</p>
<p>In the interest of a full disclaimer: I’m writing this because my dad delivered a death blow to my career this morning and I don’t have anyone to talk to. I guess I could text my sister or my mom, but as you know, neither of them have really been there for me and it’s hard to reach and confide in them. Even now. You’re the only one I know I can trust and who also isn’t a member of my family and won’t mention ‘honor’ or ‘duty’ or ‘family responsibilities.’ You were right. You were totally right. I don’t owe anything to my mother, and though she’s mentioned some plan, I still don’t think I entirely trust her. Nor do I feel like I owe her enough to have dropped everything and fly down to Dallas. To drop <em>you</em>.</p>
<p>Because I can’t just walk away from you without at least confessing the truth, something I should have said before I left you standing on the sidewalk as I drove off in a fucking Prius Uber. Truthfully, I should never have left you, <em>period</em>. I know a lot of people say it—that ‘when you know, you know’—and I never really believed it, but that’s how I felt about you immediately. And I’m not talking about when I listened to you on the podcast. You were always a bright source in my life then, someone I genuinely thought of as a friend, but the moment I walked into that examination room and saw you and heard your dumb joke, I was a goner. When I got to know you and we kissed and were actually dating for those few hours, I realized I am in love with you.</p>
<p>I know that might be way too much way too soon (and also, disclaimer: this might be the one last thing I have a say in my own life about so I’ve decided to say it) but I had to tell you. I hate the thought of you hating me, but I can understand it. But I can’t stand the thought of you thinking I never cared for you or loved you. I tried to follow the old adage of ‘if you love them, let them go’ and maybe I should stop taking love advice from old sayings, huh? I wanted to protect you, but you’re right. You don’t need protection. But, I thought I was protecting you when I pushed you away, and I didn’t give you the chance to tell me what you wanted: a relationship is a two-way street, but I was trying to make all the decisions for us as if I knew best.</p>
<p>As if I could ever know better than the hilarious, smart, clever, handsome, amazing person you are. It hurts to know you were mine, and you’d deign to accept me as yours (even if was only for a few hours), but that I’d let you go. Losing you hurts more than all the other bullshit in my life, but maybe worse is the pain of knowing you are the one thing I can never earn back. No matter how much my sister schemes, or my mother plots, or anyone might throw money or lawyers at my problems, I don’t think I can allow myself to ask you to come back to me.</p>
<p>I love you too much.</p>
<p>But, if I can ask only one thing? Please keep sharing your talent and charm and beautifulness with the world. All the while, know you’ll have a lifelong fan in me no matter where you go or what you do.</p>
<p>Love,</p>
<p>The Blue Spirit (a.k.a. Zuko)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Sozin family gets as close to group therapy as they ever will and Aang, Sokka, and Katara drive halfway across the continental United States.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My thanks to @cinnamoncookies; without her cheerleading and support, I don't know if we could have gotten to this point y'all :')</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sokka lines his fingers to stack, one above the other, an interlacing ladder of digits up and around his mug of tea, forcing himself to hold his hands in place though the heat stings him. Breathing past the biting warmth gives him something to focus on besides Iroh frowning and scrolling though Zuko’s email—<em>seriously, how many times does he have to reread it?—</em>or Aang sneaking worried glances at him or Katara bustling around behind the counter in her characteristically fluttery way of nervousness.</p><p>He begins to count the ticking of the analog clock above the vintage travel posters advertising scenic vistas in Eastern Asia, how many times Aang looks at him, and how many different tunes Katara’s nervous humming flips through as she flutters. He’s up to two-hundred-fifty-five ticks, thirty-four glances, and seventy-two unique tunes (only Katara is capable of fitting all of <em>Les Miserablés</em> into the span of five breaths), before Iroh locks the phone and slides it back to Aang.</p><p>Aang pockets it as Sokka, unable to hide his impatience, snaps, “Well?”</p><p>Iroh rubs his beard, his eyes skimming over Aang and Katara before settling on Sokka. It seems like he might go on stroking his beard indefinitely. Then, “There are some things you ought to know before you go chasing after my nephew.”</p><p>“Wait, wait,” Katara interjects, “No one said anything about running off after anyone. We’re not going to <em>road trip </em>down to Dallas after how Zuko broke up with Sokka.” When she’s met with silence, Sokka staring at her dully—too overwhelmed with a crush of emotions to sort out which one he feels most predominately—and Aang raising eyebrows, Katara croaks softy, “Right?”</p><p>Attention shifts back to Sokka. He stares into the murky depths of his green tea. One shoulder comes up. The other. “I don’t know,” he confesses. “I still have so many questions about…about him and everything.” What he doesn’t want to say aloud, for fear he’d instantly recognize his choice and how he’d hate himself for it, is: he doesn’t know whether he should chase after Zuko or run away to New York and forget Zuko ever existed.</p><p>In fleeting seconds, he’s sure he wants to leave Zuko to reckon with the tangled web of problems entirely of his own making. Yet, Sokka knows it’s unfair to lump his father’s sins onto Zuko; knows he’s doing precisely as Ozai’s done to Zuko his whole life. And, it’s entirely ignoring the niggling ache in his chest, as if part of him has been lost. A part of him Sokka knows he’ll never regain without Zuko in his life.</p><p>Iroh reaches across the counter to ease one of Sokka’s hands from its death-grip on his tea mug, locked their fingers together. “Allow me to help you, so you can help my nephew.” Sokka forces his eyes to meet Uncle Iroh’s, and he’s reminded of Zuko’s golden eyes. “From this email, it’s obvious Zuko cares for you. I can assure you I’ve never seen him care about someone so strongly.”</p><p>The words feel like a jab to the diaphragm and Sokka sucks in a sharp breath.</p><p>Aang’s warm hand falls on his shoulder. “But that doesn’t mean you’re obligated to go after him or fix him.” Sokka’s vaguely aware of Aang fixing Uncle Iroh with a disapproving therapist’s scowl: not quite angry but weighted with deep disappointment; the type of disappointment a wary mother of four has patented after years of motherhood. <em>Aang’s basically a weary, put-upon mother, </em>briefly darts through Sokka’s mind.</p><p>Iroh concedes, “Yes, of course. I don’t hold you responsible for my nephew.”</p><p>Sokka manages to nod and say, “Thank you, I appreciate that.”</p><p>A little smile curves Iroh’s mouth, before it falls, as if too heavy to hold. His face grays. “There is something quite important I feel I must share with you about my nephew and my brother, Ozai. I am guessing Zuko never told you what first brought him to Chicago?”</p><p>“No, I had always assumed school,” Sokka replies.</p><p>“And you’d be right, to an extent. Zuko did always dream of attending the University of Chicago, which he did. However, he came a year and a half before he entered university, for his last few years of high school, when he was sixteen. He was on vacation with his family, skiing, when Ozai became angry with Zuko. He held Zuko’s face into the flames of the fireplace.”</p><p>Katara gasps softly, hands flying to cover her mouth, while Aang frowns. Sokka whispers before his brain can catch up with his mouth: “His scar? His own father gave him the scar?”</p><p>Iroh nods.</p><p>Sokka grips tight at his tea mug, his knuckles bleaching white. “God damn it; and he still willingly went back to Dallas? To face his abuser? The man who literally scarred him for the rest of his life?”</p><p>“I believe Zuko felt he had a sense of duty to his mother, who also suffers at the hands of Ozai,” Iroh offers. He withdraws his hand from Sokka’s, fingers wringing together. It’s a remarkably nervous gesture, so contrary to the usual serene and wise composure Iroh maintains and it shocks away Sokka’s angry, the rage ebbing in the face of confusion. He stares as Iroh admits, “I did not realize the extend of my brother’s madness until far too late, until I was at Zuko’s bedside in the hospital, being told by the doctors that he had a fifty-fifty chance of waking up again. It was the least I could do to get Zuko away from there. I would have taken Azula too, but she was already in a boarding school. I kept wracking my brain on how to get Ursa away too, but she was constantly being sent to different rehabilitation centers.”</p><p>“Hold on, Zuko went back to Dallas because his mother asked him to, right? But is this the same mother who’s been in rehab? Can we trust her to be acting with Zuko and Azula’s best interests at heart?” Katara interrupts, finally setting aside a glass she’s been cleaning for the past five minutes. She plants her hands on the counter next to Aang, fingers splayed. “What if she’s a different but equally bad brand of crazy as Ozai is?!”</p><p>Iroh sighs. “I do believe that Ursa would never knowingly hurt her children and that she wasn’t in rehab for any real illnesses or substance abuses, but I also fear her hatred of Ozai may warp her judgement.”</p><p>“So Azula and Zuko are pretty much on their own fighting their parents?” Aang concludes.</p><p>“Of course not, my son, Lu Ten, and I are here for them,” Iroh replies, frowning at Aang. Aang raises an eyebrow and frowns right back.</p><p>Interrupting the staring contest, Katara says, “Yes, naturally, but also Ozai is the head of a multi-million-dollar company and Ursa is an heiress, right? There’s only so much support you can offer that will actually help.”</p><p>Iroh seems to deflate a little, but does nod, conceding Katara’s point.</p><p>Sokka listens to the back-and-forth, working at his lower lip as he angles and investigates every new bit of information. He’d be deceiving no one if he pretended a crackling rage didn’t stoke in his belly at the mere thought of Zuko being burned by his father—of Zuko willingly going back to face his abuser. Yet, thinking pragmatically, he’s unsure how he might be able to help Zuko. Ozai doesn’t know Zuko’s gay, and Sokka doubts appearing in Dallas to sweep his son off his feet will mediate the situation. Slowly, he lifts his mug to his mouth. When he’s taken a long pull and returned the tea to the counter, he asks lowly, “I just don’t know what it is that I’m supposed to do.”</p><p>“I do not think my nephew wanted you to <em>do </em>anything,” Iroh replies, just as quietly.</p><p>They allow the revelation to settle over them, as if perching on their shoulders and making them sag, before Aang points out, “But you’re your own person, Sokka. It’s obvious Zuko loves you. He literally spelled it out. But how do you feel?”</p><p>“How do I feel?” Sokka echoes, as if only to taste the question in his mouth; as if the flavor of the words might trigger some sensory reaction that would reveal an obvious truth. <em>How do I feel? How do </em>I <em>feel? </em>he internally demands of himself, before squashing his eyes shut, trying to sort his thoughts and feelings into hypotheticals and definitives. In his imagination he organizes a list:</p><p><em>What I think is true—</em>Zuko might be more trouble than he’s worth, I don’t really know much about his life, and I asked him not to contact me but then he did it anyway.</p><p><em>What I know is true—</em>I like being trusted to know Zuko’s troubles, I really want to <em>know</em> him<em>, </em>and at this rate the very things he addressed in his email are going to kill me with wondering.</p><p>Releasing the mug to cradle his forehead, Sokka can’t stuff back the growl of annoyance. Every possibility—every choice he might make, every action he might take—seem to stretch out into an infinity of paths; paths that diverge and end sharply at a cliff, or lead to happiness and sunshine, or trail off into the shadows of the unknown. One thing, though, is annoyingly certain.</p><p>“How do you think Zuko would react if I went down?” Sokka asks without raising his face from his hands. Shielding his eyes feels like hiding, makes him braver, keeps him from losing his carefully maintained courage to face the conclusion he dreads facing.</p><p>“I…” Iroh croaks. His mouth falls open, empty of words, before he rubs at his beard again, mouth slowly hinging shut. A thoughtful hum, then: “I do not know.”</p><p>The conclusion he’s reached, the certainty he feels locked in place in his heart by a stalwart conviction, is simply this: he’s going to do the stupid, self-flagellating thing and run after Zuko because, <em>fuck it, </em>he’s in love with him, too.</p><p>Lifting his face from his hands, pinning Iroh’s eyes with his own, Sokka asks, “Uncle Iroh, would you mind looking after Druk?”</p><p>“And Appa, too?” tacks on Aang.</p><p>(Approximately five minutes and thirty-seven seconds after Sokka, Aang, and Katara leave the tea shop in a whirlwind to go pack for their trip down to Texas, Uncle receives a phone-call from a number with a Dallas area code. He frowns, but answers, his frown morphing into equal parts confusion and surprise.)</p><hr/><p>Two hours after leaving the Jasmine Dragon, thanking Iroh for the tea and the guidance, Katara’s little navy-blue Toyota finally leaves the sprawling metropolitan area of Chicago behind. Around them stretches a patchwork of dark earth, fields still bare after winter but the rich soil promising new life soon, when planting season began and juvenile, green corn dared to poke out.</p><p>“I wish we had time to stop in Normal,” Katara’s saying to Aang. The first thirty-minutes of the drive had been devoted to planning out a schedule so everyone would have an equal leg of the fourteen-hour drive and a proportionate amount of time driving at night—dusk already fast approaching. By Katara’s estimation, if they all drive their respective five-hour legs in two intervals with minimal gas and bathroom stops, they should be arriving in Dallas, Texas at around 10am on Saturday morning.</p><p><em>I love my sister and my best friend, </em>Sokka thinks, tearing his eyes away from the (monotonous) scenery to glance between the two them at the front of the car.</p><p>Katara chatters on over the TWRP music Aang’s insisted on queuing up: “There’s a really awesome coffee shop I want to take you guys to, especially you, Aang. They’ve got an awesome selection of vegan baked goods.” Katara had attended ISU in (wait for it) Normal, Illinois, and through her nostalgia-tinted recounting, Sokka sometimes wonders if she ever actually studied or was too busy ‘discovering the local community.’</p><p>(But, of course, Katara did <em>some </em>studying; she was the valedictorian of her forty-five-hundred-person class. Katara’s definitely the smart Imiq sibling.)</p><p>“Oh, cool,” Aang enthuses. Though a vegetarian, he swears up and down he’d go full vegan if it weren’t for his cheese obsession. “Maybe we could take a weekend trip sometime and go there! You could show me all the other places you hung out during undergrad, too.”</p><p>Sokka doesn’t miss the quick glance Katara gives him, how she determinedly focuses back on the road as pink begins to darken her cheeks. Eyes darting between his sister and his best friend, Sokka wonders if Aang actually did it; after all these years, Aang finally woke Katara up to the fact that they’ve been grossly in love with each other for <em>over a decade.</em></p><p><em>All it took was me getting distracted with the most amazing man I’ve ever met and his completely disastrous life, </em>Sokka thinks, sardonic even in his own mind.</p><p>Scrambling for a distraction, Katara blurts: “Anyone want to listen to a new podcast? ‘Very Presidential’ where basically all the presidents are exposed as evil.”</p><p>“Not like that’s a surprise,” Aang replies. “They <em>are </em>all white men benefitting from an antiquated system that favors them.”</p><p>“True, but not our man number forty-four,” Sokka pipes in. And, because he’s a born and bred Illinoisan, he feels biologically obligated to add: “And debatably Lincoln?”</p><p><em>“</em>Oh, a controversial take,” Katara replies, going full English teacher on them. The affection already warming Sokka’s chest for his baby sister stokes up to a roaring blaze because she’s such a nerd and he just loves her so much. She adds: “Like, how are we interrogating his presidency? Through a historical lens, or Marxist, or what?” And Katara’s suggestion loses out to a two-hour long debate (entirely of her own making) about Abraham Lincoln between the three of them. The Toyota’s wheels continue gulping down mile after magnificent mile of barren Illinois farmland, carrying them ever closer to the Missouri border and Texas somewhere beyond.</p><hr/><p>Katara’s podcasts were eventually played, along with the entirety of the new The Killers album, all of Queen and David Bowie’s top hits (their rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody” should be made illegal in all fifty states), and now it’s almost two in the morning. Aang took over from Sokka around midnight, just outside of Joplin, Missouri, and now the green lights of the dashboard cast an ethereal glow across Aang and Katara, in shotgun.</p><p>Sokka started softly snorting in the backseat almost immediately upon switching out drivers, and it offers ambient noise along with the lowly played Lord Huron discography.</p><p>“Thanks for coming along, Aang,” Katara whispers into the quiet.</p><p>He briefly allows his eyes to flicker from the road and to her. Back to the unending line of black cement. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to do anything else with my weekend than spontaneously road trip across the country.”</p><p>Katara huffs a laugh.</p><p>Aang cracks a grin, finding Katara’s hand resting on the center console. He threads their fingers together. “But seriously. I want to be here. Supporting Sokka.” He squeezes her hand briefly, lightly, enough so she could pull away if she’s uncomfortable. “Supporting you.”</p><p>Katara doesn’t reply immediately, too busy staring down at Aang’s hand around hers and having to sit on her other hand. Her palms clam, her fingers feel shot-through with electricity, and every inch of skin radiates heat. For one wild moment, she convinces herself Aang can feel the blazing warmth of her blush and might interpret it, might pull back, and Katara tightens her grip, returning the squeeze.</p><p>It might be the lateness of the hour, the hypnotizing sameness of the Interstate, but the words leave Katara’s mouth entirely of their own accord: “Why are you so good to us, Aang? To me? I know you’re both of our best friends, but you put up with so much from me, especially. You’re so patient and kind to me when I…” She trails off, memories of her shouting at Sokka over the years, and even Aang on occasion, sending a shiver along her spine; she wishes she could crawl out of her own skin. “I haven’t always been then nicest to you.”</p><p>Aang shrugs and, to Katara’s relief, doesn’t withdraw his hand. “I know it’s your way of caring.” His thumb brushes over her knuckles, a tentatively soothing gesture. “And I know you’re actively getting better. It’s one of the things I’ve always…<em>admired</em> about you.” Air catches in Katara’s throat, sure an implication of another, more loaded word lived in ‘admired.’</p><p>“Um, well, I admire you, too,” she scrambles to say. “I admire how you’re helping a lot of kids work past trauma so they can grow into wonderful people and how you inspire them, and everyone you meet, and me because you’re really wonderful yourself. I admire how funny you are and how you keep up with Sokka on the podcast. I like that you care <em>a lot </em>about your friends and I’m just…”</p><p>Aang doesn’t prompt her, doesn’t point out how ‘admire’ somehow transformed into ‘like’ even though a wellspring of happiness brews in his chest and threatens to bubble out of him. He waits for Katara to puzzle through her thoughts, to decide what she’s comfortable admitting to just then, and his patience is rewarded when she continues, “And I haven’t really thought of you as just a friend for a while.”</p><p>Fingers whitening on the steering wheel, determined to keep from swerving off the road, Aang has to take a solid ten seconds of breathing to master his galloping heartbeat and his nerves, singing with disbelief—unbridled joy—pure euphoria. His mouth works soundlessly at a reply. Clearing his throat once, twice, he stutters, “Are you sure? I don’t want to pressure you. And I’ve always tried to keep from making my feelings too obvious—”</p><p>Katara squeezes his hand, his string of questions fumbling into silence. “I really wish I could kiss you or something to get you to stop talking, like in one of those movies,” Katara teases, leaning across the console to brush her lips across his check, giving him a chaste kiss.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m not sure that’d be very safe,” he jokes back; it’s a little squeaky, a little pathetic, but his stretching smile is strong and authentic because Katara’s looking at him how he’s always dreamed she might.</p><p>“Don’t think Sokka would appreciate being woken up to us crashing because we were making out,” Katara replies, entirely unaware that Aang blushes just as deeply as she does at the mere suggestion of such wonderous things as making out; the darkness’ gloom offers its small mercies. </p><p>“Yeah, for some reason, I don’t think he’d like that, either,” Aang replies. His thumb brushes across her knuckles again, though the gestures suddenly taken on new meaning, new life, new implication: he’s holding Katara’s hand—<em>Katara who feels the say way I do—</em>and it means more than just a friend comforting a friend. “Kat, I’d…I’d like to take you out on a date when we get back home.”</p><p>“I’d really, really like that.”</p><p>(In the backseat of the Toyota, Sokka lets his half-cracked eyes flutter shut now that his idiot best friend and idiot sister have managed to stumble through their confessions of love—<em>err, well, </em>confession of like. He shifts, hoping for a more comfortable position, and drifts off back to sleep with a smile curling his lips.)</p><hr/><p>At 9:15 AM, Aang, Katara, and Sokka cross the state-line into Texas.</p><p>At 9:16 AM, Zuko follows Azula out of the Alice Circle house and slides into the passenger seat of her Acura. Neither of the siblings say a word, all important information conveyed after Azula came home yesterday afternoon to find Zuko nearly comatose but still in need of coaching on what—and what not—to say to the federal investigators. Though he asked, she refused to be pinned down to an answer on if she found any conclusive proof backing up Ursa’s claims or if she managed to make the private investigator’s photos disappear.</p><p>Zuko assumed it was bad news on both accounts, so he dropped his line of questioning, trying to absorb instead the slew of information Azula dumped on him.</p><p>Now, though, he slides his Bluetooth headphones from his pocket, intent on at least listening to a song or two as they drive to the Phoenix Pharmaceutical headquarters; as they drive towards an interview where he was going to lie to the Feds in the vague hope it’ll garner enough goodwill from his father to <em>not </em>ruin his career (Azula said it best: “At this point, anything little could help us be in a better position than before”).</p><p>Toggling through his Spotify, Zuko mindlessly searches for something to queue up. More out of habit than cognizant choice, he opens the <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>podcast page and hits his thumb on the newest ‘Chew and Chat’ episode.  He instantly regrets the choice:</p><p>Aang, not Sokka, rattles out the familiar introducation: “Welcome to another segment of ‘Chew and Chat,’ folks, your weekly chance to catch up with us, the Ghoul Boys, your hosts of <em>Cryptid: Decoded.  </em>That’s Sokka—”</p><p>“And that’s Aang,” Sokka picks up, his voice drained of its usual cheerful candor. And, Zuko’s nerves, already on edge—Aang has only done the introduction once before in all of the podcast’s history, and that was when Sokka had been sick with strep throat—begin to send his hands quaking and his heart plunging into his toes. Sokka sounds exhausted, entirely drained of life; as though he’s forgotten how to laugh, smile, or his love for the podcast he’s built from the ground up. <em>I took that away from him, </em>Zuko thinks, <em>This is my fault.</em></p><p>Slamming his thumb down on the pause button, he shoves his phone into his pocket and his earphones soon follow. He can’t confront the reality of his actions ruining <em>Cryptid: Decoded, </em>ruining Sokka; not right now. Not when he has to lie as though his life depends on it.</p><p>Because it does.</p><p>Azula glances at him as they ease out of their Highland Park neighborhood and join the rush of traffic chugging north. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“Um, yeah.”</p><p>Yet, Zuko isn’t very convincing—and of course he’s not: he wants to throw-up his two bites of Cheerios, he wants to open the door and roll out of the car and out of his life, if he could. Azula reaches across the center console to squeeze his fingers. “It’s okay. I’ll be with you through the whole thing. We’re in this together, Zuzu.”</p><p>And, when that nickname had once sent his stomach knotting and his toes curling, he now takes solace in it. He manages a shaky smile at his sister, squeezing back.</p><p>At 9:43 AM, Zuko follows Azula through the lobby of the Phoenix Pharmaceutical headquarters, aiming for the elevator to take them up to the executive floor.</p><p>At 9:45 AM, Zuko hands over his cellphone to an FBI agent, powered down and screen dark, for the duration of his interview.</p><p>At 9:47 AM, Sokka unblocks Zuko’s number and sends him a text reading: ‘We’re in Dallas and our GPS is for your family’s company building. Let us know where you are!’</p><hr/><p>Zuko eyes the agent as she slides his phone into a clear plastic bag, zipping it closed with the care one might handle a pipe-bomb. Surrendering his phone feels like the equivalent of stripping down and parading around naked in front of the FBI agents; he’s left bare, defenseless, and completely resigned to his fate: to lying and probably indicting himself into even greater trouble than a civil lawsuit for an inappropriate doctor-patient relationship at the behest of his father.</p><p>Another agent appears down the hallway, from one of the numerous office doors dotting the long, linoleum hallway finished with sleek glass accents—the headquarters building had just gone through a renovation last year, everything feeling both futuristic and post-apocalyptic (Zuko can’t really decide). This second agent, a reedy, straight-backed man with a weirdly thin and long mustache zeroes in on Zuko and is striding towards him. Zuko’s reminded of videos of Slenderman.</p><p>“Mr. Zuko Sozin?” the agent asks, his voice like oil in water.</p><p>“Um,” Zuko croaks back. “Yeah, that’s me.”</p><p>The agent gives a shallow nod; clearly, he knew fully well who Zuko is. Asking him had been a kind of power play. “I am Agent Long Feng. I will be conducting your interview today. If you are prepared, I’d ask you to follow me?” He angles himself to gesture backward down the hall, the way he came, clearly wanting Zuko to lead.</p><p>A rush of crisp steps behind him, the smart <em>clip-clip</em> of heels against tile, and then a slim hand encloses around Zuko’s wrist. “Pardon us, sir, but could I borrow my brother for a moment? I promise it won’t be longer than a minute,” Azula says before Zuko can jerk free out of reflex, before he can undermine them by displaying his obvious confusion.</p><p>Agent Long Feng’s dark eyes—green irises with hidden depths with the sort of predatory focus, Zuko is reminded of a shark—dart between the two siblings before settling on Zuko’s face. He tries to present a mask of innocent, all polite smile and blinking eyes. A slow nod. “Very well, I will be waiting here.”</p><p>“Thank you, sir,” Azula says, all bright smiles and feminine deferment: as if she’s a naïve, demure woman and not the most dangerous predator in the hundred-mile radius. She tows Zuko down the hall, past the bank of elevators they disembarked only five minutes before and stops twenty feet beyond. She purposefully keeps them in sight of the FBI agents, but far enough away that both their words and mouth movements are lost to distance.</p><p>With as much restraint as he can—hyper cognizant of how the action might register to an observer—Zuko extracts his wrist from Azula’s iron-tight fingers. “What the hell?” he hisses. “I remember everything you coached me to say, Azula, just let me go and face my—”</p><p>“Hush up, and talk to her,” Azula cuts off, not unkindly. She shoves her phone into his hands and seeing it’s in the middle of a phone call.</p><p>Zuko’s lips pucker, preparing to ask <em>who, </em>exactly, Azula means by ‘her,’ but then a smooth voice—like an old Hollywood seductress—buzzes through the phone: “Hello? Is this Zuko?”</p><p>“Yes? Who are you?” Zuko replies, pulling a questioning face at Azula. She tilts her head and raises her eyebrow back.</p><p>“June, the private investigator your father hired,” she replies, with all the languid causality, Zuko would have thought they were discussing his DoorDash delivery. “I’ve spoken to your sister, but she wanted you to hear this from me.”</p><p>Zuko blinks rapidly, his heartbeat picking up. “Hear what?”</p><p>A tongue click from the other end. “Well, slow down and let me talk, I might tell you,” she chastised. Zuko mumbles an apology and she continues, “She wanted me to tell you that I’ve destroyed all the evidence about you and your little boyfriend. I was only too happy to do it; I hate being a homewrecker if the people I’m tailing don’t actually deserve it.” She says this with a quirk in her voice, as though amused by some personal joke.</p><p>Zuko doesn’t have the awareness to inquire what that might be, too busy focusing on keeping from dropping the phone entirely. “What?” he wheezes.</p><p>June ignores him. “Tell your sister I appreciate doing business with her, and that if she ever wants to grab a drink sometime, she has my number.” The call clicks off.</p><p>Slowly, as though moving though living a slow-motion movie, Zuko lowers the phone, his sightless eyes blinking endlessly at nothing at all. A dull sort of roar builds in his ears, stuffing his senses and chasing all rational thought in his brain. <em>June…is destroying the evidence. That means I won’t be…and Sokka will be…</em> He verbalizes the most important, pivotal conclusion his fuzzy brain can concoct: “Sokka won’t be dragged into this.”</p><p>Prizing her phone out of his hands, sliding it back into her Celine black leather purse, Azula replies, “That’s correct.”</p><p>“And Father hasn’t…he’ll never…?”</p><p>“No and no,” Azula replies. “I managed to keep the photos off of his desk, but I had to ensure he couldn’t follow up with June.” Pause. “I like her: she had a price, as any reasonable person should.”</p><p>Entirely forgetting June’s message for Azula, Zuko frowns, forcing his eyes back to his sister. “Azula…” he begins. Her eyes stay fixed away from her, a distinct unease slouching her shoulders, and she looks vaguely ill. <em>Vaguely ill because she did an incredibly selfless thing, </em>Zuko realizes and he’d throw his arms around her if the FBI agents weren’t right there, if he didn’t know how much she hates being hugged. Instead, he settles on, “Azula, however much you had to pay, I’ll repay you. I promise. I owe you that much, for all you’ve done for me.” He dares to squeeze her fingers with his.</p><p>She shakes her head. Something like a smile touches her mouth. “No, Dumb-dumb, I didn’t do it because I wanted you in my debt. I wanted to pull one over on Father and…and you’re my brother.” She shrugs.</p><p>Zuko understands the implication in the shrug.</p><p>“Still, thank you,” Zuko reiterates before frowning. “But, wait, how are you going to keep this from Father? All of our bank accounts…?”</p><p>What Zuko doesn’t need to vocalize: all of their accounts are firmly in the control of the vice-grip of Ozai. Azula understands his meaning, now finally fixing with Zuko. “I set up bank accounts for all my painting proceeds. Can you imagine what Father’s reaction would have been if he knew his daughter was making money off something as ‘pathetic’ as oil paintings?”</p><p>“Wait, hold on, if this is money you’ve worked hard to earn, then I <em>have</em> to—”</p><p>Azula shakes her head, cutting in: “No, Zuko, the only thing you <em>have </em>to do now is make a choice: Ozai now only has one thing hanging over you right now, the FDA falsifications. You need to decide whether you want to go into that investigation and lie for him, or if you want to tell the truth.”</p><p>“But my career…” Zuko whispers, wincing at how he sounds like a mewling, helpless creature. <em>My career? </em>he demands of himself; is it really compromising his morals? His ethics? His ability to sleep at night? Would he lie and save Ozai from a crime he probably won’t get away with, just to protect his career? Or, would he sacrifice his profession to protect his integrity. And, if he’s quite honest, to avenge his lost childhood.</p><p><em>Besides, without the lawsuit, there’s no innocent bystanders who will get hurt, </em>Zuko rationalizes. With June’s silence bought by Azula, Sokka’s name won’t be dragged into a court case or be smeared in the media. It won’t be Zuko’s fault that Sokka’s life is ruined; perhaps he’ll be forever guilty of ruining the quality of a podcast episode or two, but Sokka would recover. His heart would mend without Zuko around to break it.</p><p>Zuko nods. “Okay, and you’re sure there’s nothing to Mom’s claims?”</p><p>Azula shakes her head. “Nothing I could find, which means she’s either really good at covering her tracks or…” She bites her lip.</p><p>“Or she’s making the whole thing up out of one her medicine-induced manic episodes,” Zuko finishes.</p><p> A reluctant nod, a deep sigh. “Unfortunately, it’s a possibly we need to consider.”</p><p>Meaning there’s no magic bullet to get Zuko out of whatever confrontation he faces after he tells the truth—every component of it, with all the sordid details—to Agent Long Feng. Ursa won’t be saving him <em>and what else is new? She could never protect me when I was growing up; why should now be any different?</em></p><p>“Then we’ll deal with that after I get out of this interview.” Zuko reaches, pressing Azula’s hangs together between his. “We’re going to get through his. Together.”</p><p>“I know. Now, go talk to them. I’ll be waiting here for…” Words die on her tongue, her eyes sliding from Zuko and beyond his shoulder. Blood drains from her face, leaving her ghostly pale. The short hairs on the back of Zuko’s stand at attention, his every nerve singing, and he doesn’t need to turn to confirm what—or rather, <em>who</em>—stands behind him.</p><p>He turns, finding the elevator door closing behind Ozai as he strides towards them.</p><p>“Ah, my two beautiful children!” Ozai greets, sweeping his hands wide as if to encompass Azula and Zuko in a hug. It’d be the first hug Zuko could ever remember from his father. But, instead of sweeping them in, his meat cleaver hands fall heavy on Zuko’s shoulder, prying him away from Azula and frog marching him down the hall, toward Long Feng and his little squadron of black-suited agents. “Here I thought you’d already be in your interview. Well, let’s get you in there, huh? Don’t want to keep these gentlemen and ladies waiting, do we?” He offers a conciliatory smile to Long Feng, who dips his head back in a shallow but respectful nod.</p><p>Zuko swallows past the sudden dryness in his throat; is Long Feng somehow in Ozai’s pocket. What did that exchange mean? <em>Did </em>it mean anything?</p><p>Before he can cobble together answers, or even a hypothesis, Ozai leans close. His hot breath gusts over his ear along with the whispered threat: “Don’t betray me, boy. I’ll know if you tell them anything. Remember: I own you.” Ozai leans back, releasing his grip on Zuko, as they square up to the door Long Feng waved to. In a louder voice, purely for show, he adds, “Now, go and be cooperative for Agent Long Feng. Make me proud.”</p><p>Agent Long Feng moves to open the door—a quick glance at the plaque labeling the door tells Zuko its ‘Board Room #6’—moving inside to hold the door open as Ozai turns to abandon Zuko to the performance of his life. “Ah, hold on, sir,” Long Feng calls to him. “We’d actually like you in here, too.”</p><p>“Me?” Ozai repeats, but whatever else he says—or Long Feng replies with to convince him to come in—is lost to Zuko’s ears. He shuffles into the boardroom feeling as though he’s suddenly plunged into a dream. Occupying one end of the massive oak table, their backs to the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the Dallas metropolitan sprawl, sits Ursa flanked by Uncle Iroh and Cousin Lu Ten.</p><p>“Uh,” Zuko croaks. “What—what are you—?”</p><p>Ursa doesn’t wait for Zuko to recover, pushing off from her chair at the table’s head to sweep around and fold Zuko into a hug. Pressing a kiss into his scarred cheek as she pulls back, she exclaims, “My dearest Zuko! How kind of you to come!”</p><p>Zuko doesn’t point out he didn’t intentionally come to—to <em>an impromptu family meeting?—</em>on purpose mostly because he’s too flabbergasted to summon the words to explain himself. Instead, he limply hugs his mother back and allows her to lead him back to her end of the conference table. He falls into the empty chair next to Cousin Lu Ten, who doesn’t look the least bit concerned nor surprised by Zuko’s shock.</p><p>Meanwhile, Agent Long Feng has shepherded Ozai into the room and into the chair at the foot of the table, directly opposite Ursa. After sticking his head into the hallway and asking an agent to invite Miss Azula Sozin to join them, the Agent joins the table.</p><p>“What is the meaning of this?” Ozai demands with enough fury and rabidity, it’s surprising he doesn’t begin foaming at the mouth. Zuko flinches, a prick of fear—of how that anger was typically a precursor to Ozai’s more physically violent bursts—zinging through him. It successfully pulls his brain from its cloud of confusion, grounding him in the present.</p><p>“I think it’d be polite to wait for our daughter to join us, this is a family matter, after all,” Ursa replies, serenely.</p><p>Ozai’s nostrils literally flare. “Oh, and I assume you thought inviting the FBI to a family gathering was appropriate? What games are you playing, woman?” <em>So I wonder if Long Feng is actually in </em>Ursa’s <em>pocket? </em>Zuko thinks.</p><p>Ursa only smiles, her silvery-red painted lips stretching wide.</p><p>The boardroom plunges into silence, Zuko catching Uncle’s eye and raising a questioning eyebrow. A silent ‘what’s going on’ telegraphed to Uncle, received and interpreted thanks to Iroh and Zuko living together for years—the formative years of Zuko’s later high school and college years when reading his signals helped Iroh navigate the worst of Zuko’s temper. Now, he responds to Zuko’s question with a barely-there shrug, a crinkle of his eyes.</p><p>Zuko frowns: Iroh refuses to tell him, but it isn’t something bad. Uncle would never knowingly lead Zuko—<em>and </em>his own biological son, Lu Ten—into a complete family implosion. Well, at least a great implosion than Christmas a few years ago.</p><p>The boardroom door squeaks open and Azula appears, guided by the female agent who took Zuko’s phone. Azula takes the seat next to Uncle—directly across from Zuko, allowing the siblings to trade raised eyebrows at each other—while the agent lingers by the door, apparently present to take notes.</p><p>“What is this?” Ozai demands, eyes cutting from Long Feng to Ursa, never pausing to look at anyone else, apparently deemed too inconsequential to bother looking at. Zuko’s grateful for this tiny reprieve.</p><p>Ursa looks to Agent Long Feng, and he takes it upon himself to offer: “I suppose I shall offer some clarity: Ms. Ursa Roku-Sozin has agreed to immunity in exchange for assisting us in the investigation of Phoenix Pharmaceuticals and you, Mr. Ozai Sozin. She was kind enough to arrange this little meeting for us all to gather here today and have a, uh, tête-à-tête, shall we say?” </p><p>Ozai snorts, relaxing back into his chair. “Oh? You bought that she knows anything about the daily running, corporate dealings, or the financial standing of the company? I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you, Agent, but my estranged wife knows nothing but the inside of a rehab center. You’ve been doped.” Ozai sounds the furthest thing from ‘sorry.’ “You’d have done better to strike a bargain with Azula.” He nods at her, and Azula flinches, as if she’d rather dive under the table than be acknowledged by Ozai. “She’s the real one with claws in this family; a bitch that bites.”</p><p>Azula glares at the table before her, as if trying to sear holes into the wood with the heat of her scowl.</p><p>“How quaint,” Ursa speaks up then. “Using feminine slurs against your own daughter. Truly, I would’ve thought you’d have come up with something more original by now.”</p><p>“Always armed with a pithy comment, aren’t you, Ursa?” snips back Ozai.</p><p>Zuko tries his best to not shrink in his chair, reminded all too vividly of the many nights throughout his childhood when he’d fall asleep to the sounds of his parents fighting downstairs. Their yelling, the banging doors, the crash of broken vases would broadcast throughout the entirety of the house, permeating every nook and cranny with the red-hot rage of his parents.</p><p>“Better than a basal insult,” Ursa returns with a shrug.</p><p>“Actually,” Long Feng interrupts before Ozai can fire back, apparently leery of this conversation becoming an exchange of insults, blank bullet shot aimlessly and causing no real consequence. “Ms. Roku-Sozin agreed she’d get you to completely cooperate with our investigation and that she could guarantee a full confession to insider-trading and embezzling. She made no mention, however, of knowing any specifics about your company business.”</p><p>Ozai snorts. “And did she detail how she would she’d get this magical confession to crimes I didn’t commit?”</p><p>If Zuko hadn’t been studying his mother’s face, he’d miss how her smile turned sharp, as if her teeth had been filed to dagger-sharp tips. He’d have missed the slight narrowing of her eyes, the perilous glare of a killer zeroing in on a target. “<em>I,</em>” Ursa spits out, “assured Agent Long Feng I could get you an ultimatum you positively couldn’t refuse.” Her attention darts to Lu Ten, giving him a nod.</p><p>Recognizing his cue in the drama, Lu Ten stands to shuttle a dossier of papers down the table, delivering it to the table before Ozai. “Divorce papers. Outlined here are the stipulations that you will relinquish all your claims to the Roku estate upon signing these papers, as well as giving the inheritances of the Sozin due to your children, Azula and Zuko, prematurely, thus forfeiting all financial custody of both of them,” Lu Ten explains.</p><p>Ozai listens with a steadily widening grin, and when Lu Ten finishes, he leans back in his chair and roars with laughter. He cackles up to the ceiling, his fingers clutching at his diaphragm, and he doesn’t stop for a slowly ticking two minutes. When his hysterics subside, one of his sausage fingers swiping away a tear, he shoves away the dossier. “What a joke! You’ve <em>really </em>been taken in, Long Feng, and this is <em>really </em>wasting my time.” He goes to stand.</p><p>“I wouldn’t walk out of here without signing those papers, if I were you,” Ursa warns, standing too. Hands pressed into the table, as if to support her, she adds, “Not if you don’t want the world to know how you falsified my supposed ‘illnesses’ and ‘substance abuses’ <em>and </em>how you paid to cover up the burning of your son.”</p><p>Ozai stills, his eyes cranking around to first land on Ursa before zeroing in on Zuko. They narrow in accusation. “<em>What?” </em>he growls. “What is she talking about, boy? Did you squeal?”</p><p>“Zuko didn’t do anything,” Ursa snaps. “You silenced him then. You were the cause of your own undoing. I found your paper trial from paying off the Colorado police and the doctors. Turns out keeping such careful accounts is your downfall.” She nods to Lu Ten again and he retrieves a second dossier from his suitcase.</p><p>“Check stubs for a series of payments and ‘donations’ made to the Aspen police department and the Aspen community hospital all around the time of Zuko’s accident,” Lu Ten reports, piling it on top of the divorce papers.</p><p>“These don’t prove your wild accusations,” Ozai retorts, tossing the papers down the table and towards Ursa. “They were all charitable donations made to show our family’s thanks for taking such good care of Zuko.”</p><p>Ursa snorts. “When have you been charitable a day in your life?”</p><p>Ozai’s mouth hinges open, ready to roar back with a scathing retort, but Uncle Iroh interrupts, speaking for the first time, “Perhaps now would be an opportune time to ask Zuko if he remembers the names of any of the doctors who operated on him?”</p><p>“Well, there was Dr. Pakku,” Zuko replies slowly, wondering what point Uncle drives at.</p><p>“Yes, he was the doctor who oversaw your skin grafts. But what about the doctor who first operated on you when arrived in the emergency room?” Iroh gently prods.</p><p>Zuko frowns, shaking his head. The forty-eight hours after he tumbled into unconsciousness—the searing pain of his skin burning off of his face too great to withstand—had been dotted with hazy returns to the waking world, so muddled by painkillers and confusion, he can only remember vague impressions of white coats and beige hospital rooms. “I…I don’t remember.”</p><p>“And it’s okay not to,” Azula interjects, shooting Zuko a small smile of sympathy before frowning at Uncle. “Why are you bringing this up? I don’t see what it has to do with anything.”</p><p>“Just allow me one more question,” Uncle returns, giving Azula a placating smile. To Zuko, he asks, “And do you know where your medical practice partner worked before moving to Chicago? Dr. Hao?”</p><p>“Denver,” Zuko returns, frowning even deeper as comprehension dawns on him, “Are you saying that Dr. Hao was the attending physician for me?” <em>But does that mean I didn’t earn my job based on merit? Does his taking me on as his medical partner mean he was just doing a favor to my father?</em></p><p>Zuko’s panicked thoughts are forgotten when Uncle picks up a sheaf of paper in front of him. From it, he reads, “‘I, Jeong-Jeong Hao, confess to accepting money as a donation from Mr. Ozai Sozin on the understanding that I would not go to authorities to reveal he was the one responsible for the burning of his seventeen-year-old son, Zuko, on the evening of December 23.’”</p><p>On the opposite end of the boardroom table, Ozai has gone still, quiet.</p><p>Ursa picks up: “Interesting you should read someone’s written confession, Iroh. I have one here of my own.” She brandishes another piece of paper to illustrate before reading aloud, “‘My sister and I, Li and Lo, while employed by Mr. Ozai Sozin confess to being asked to drug his wife, Ursa Roku-Sozin, per his request to simulate a mental instability and chronic nervousness he claims she displays. We additionally confess to knowing Ursa displayed none of the supposed mental illnesses she had but aided in purposefully misguiding her and keeping her locked up inside at the request of Ozai Sozin.”</p><p>Ozai, his eyes darting to Long Feng and the agent scribbling furious notes by the door, tries to rationalize: “I was doing what I thought was best for Ursa’s wellbeing at the time! She would have this shouting and crying fits—”</p><p>“Because you were threatening our children, Ozai!” cuts in Ursa. “You had me put away in the fanciest prisons you could find so you could keep my money but not have to deal with me!”</p><p>Ozai continues on, ignoring her, “And she’s given to these delusions of paranoia where she thinks I’m out to get her for her money!”</p><p>“Uncle,” Lu Ten interrupts then, flopping a folder open before him. From Zuko’s place farther down the table, he can make out the distinctive marks of bruising on Ursa’s wrists, her bicep, even around her neck. Queasiness roils in Zuko’s stomach and he forces himself to look away. “We have photographic proof of your abusing Aunt Ursa. However, if you’d like to contest her claims, we collected DNA from her clothes after this abuse and if you’d be so kind to give us a sample, we can prove it isn’t a match.”</p><p>“Unless you’re scared that it <em>would </em>match?” Ursa tacks on smoothly, quirking an eyebrow.</p><p>Shifting tactics, Ozai turns his eyes to Zuko and he looks at his son as he never has before: Zuko watches the usual scowl Ozai wears melt into something like a loving look, his mouth easing into a coaxing smile, and his eyebrows knitting up and together. Though Ozai doesn’t know the definition of ‘beg,’ he wears a pleading look now. “Zuko, my son, tell them how wrong—how absurd—this all is. I’d never hurt you, would I? It was just an accident that you got burned and I was the one to pull you out of the flames, wasn’t I? Dr. Hao was mistaken, just as your mother is mistaken. Go on, tell them.”</p><p>Air catches in Zuko’s throat, as if oxygen itself attempts to choke him, and he feels small under his father’s gaze. His heart withers in his chest, as if so diminished by Ozai’s attention he’s been aged backwards to the tiny, scared seventeen-year-old he had been when he tried to defend his mother only to feel Ozai’s nails digging into his scalp. Ozai grip had been so crushing, his rage so overpowering, Zuko had been sure for one wild moment that he’d simply crush his skull like it was nothing but a tomato. He had imagined tomato juice splattering the roughhewn stones of the fireplace, staining the authentic Navajo rug, and stoppering Zuko’s fear before it stopped his heart. It had been almost a relief when Zuko first felt the hot breath, the kisses of the fire over his skin. Then, he’d been overcome with pain and the paralyzed that his Father really was trying to kill him.</p><p>Zuko still doesn’t know Father’s intention—if murder had been a part of the plan, or simply a lifelong deformity—and, now, staring at his father, he doubts he really knew either because Ozai never thinks of the toil his actions take on those around him. He doesn’t consider how shoving his son’s face into a fireplace might harm him, nor does he consider how running a company <em>and family </em>on fear will lead people to buck off his tyrannical dictatorship. He doesn’t consider how asking his son to lie for him—to the FBI and to his family, who finally, <em>finally, </em>proved Ozai’s responsibility for the scar marking him as unwanted, unloved—will catapult Zuko through every fluctuation of fear and hatred and resentment he’s ever felt for his father. He doesn’t consider it, simply because every person in his life allows him to live without consequences, to comply with his every request.</p><p>And this, more than being slammed into a kitchen doorjamb or realizing he would rather sacrifice his career than himself, shifts Zuko’s heart; it fills him with an unexpected flood of courage. Zuko would be tormented for the rest of his life by the actions of his father, the love he always held out to Zuko like a reward he must earn and the hate he dealt out in its place, but Ozai would never regret his treatment of Zuko. It’d never register to him as a problem. Though Zuko knows he needs to begin wading through the repressed childhood memories to properly heal, he also knows he can’t continue punishing himself with fear of his Father. A fear rooted in the inherent absence of his Father’s love. A love he’ll never earn and, he realizes, he never wanted.</p><p>Why would he want the love and approval of a monster?</p><p>Zuko’s eyes flick to his sister, his cousin, his uncle: the family who have proven themselves capable of loving him and letting him love them in return. The road to a healthy relationship with Azula is still a long one, but he trusts her; he loves her. His attention slithers to his mother. He knows she has always acted in her best interests, but sometimes her acts of devotion hurt him as an innocent bystander. He couldn’t trust her, not yet, but he could love her and nurture their relationship until it might flower with trust.</p><p>Zuko’s willing to try. He isn’t willing to try, though, with Ozai.</p><p>Some people he can forgive, some he’d rather forget. And though forgetting one’s own father isn’t possible—not truly—Zuko is willing to try that, too. So, when Zuko meets Ozai’s eyes squarely—staring into the gold eyes so like his own, <em>but worlds apart because we are nothing alike—</em>he enunciates each syllable hard so there will be doubt when he says, “I’m not going to lie for you, not like I used to. I won't do it anymore. You were the one who burned me. You shoved my face into the fireplace because I tried to stop you from hurting Mom. I’m just glad that we now have evidence.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>Ozai mouth purses into a thin line, color draining from his cheeks only to be soon replaced by a deep red tinting his skin. Hands balling into fists, his voice quivers, “You little bastard. You ungrateful little fucker. I will ruin you, do you hear me? I will tear apart your life, you’ll never get a job anywhere again, not even a fucking McDonalds—”</p><p>“Father, please! You’re embarrassing yourself,” Azula interjects then, standing and sending her rolling chair coasting out behind her. It crashes into the wall. She carries on, decorum never flagging, “All this raving is very unbecoming. Besides, you have nothing on Zuzu. All of your threats are empty.”</p><p>Ozai glares at her, panting heavily around his rage. Agent Long Feng has risen from his chair, apparently ready to physically restrain Ozai should the need arise while the agent at the door holds what appears to be a taser.</p><p>“What are you talking about, you bitch?” growls Ozai.</p><p>Not reacting to the insult, Azula turns her phone towards him, as if he might be able to read it across the room. Yet, only across the table as Zuko is, he can see it’s a file of audio recordings. “It turns out that Mother’s paranoia about you tapping our calls wasn’t exactly unfounded,” Azula exclaims, casting an apologetic look to Ursa for calling her paranoid. “While you people were being dramatic and accusing each other, I thought it might be worthwhile to look into your personal files. You really ought to get a stronger password, Father.” She breezes on, not allowing him to interject, “But it appears there’s a recording of you threatening Zuko to falsify the drug findings. Of course, Zuko might get some jail time for being an accessory to your schemes, but ‘ruining him for life?’ I don’t think so.”</p><p>“But…but…” Ozai croaks, floundering for an angle to defend himself, to attack one of them. His eyes cast around to everyone in the room, always revolving around to the growing mountain of paper and evidence in front of him. “This…this can’t happen. You people—you people—you’re weak! You can’t beat me; you can’t—”</p><p>“Ah yes, I forget that we’re supposed to be weak and submissive to you; my mistake, I forgot,” Ursa interjects, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.</p><p>Silence as they watch Ozai go through what appears to be a psychotic break.</p><p>Cousin Lu Ten, ever the practical one, breaks the silence. He coughs politely, leaning to tap a finger on the divorce papers. “If you’d sign the papers, Uncle? In there you will see that Ursa is promising not to go public with all the evidence against you in exchange for you immediately signing the divorce papers and also confessing entirely to the charges against you that the FBI are investigating.”</p><p>And, after what feels like an eternity, Ozai picks up his pen and begins filling in the blanks dotted throughout the papers. Occasionally, Lu Ten points out where he missed signing his initials or checking a box indicating his agreement. Zuko holds his breath the entire time and only when Ozai finishes, capping his pen, does he breathe again.</p><p>And Zuko knows it’s the first true breath he’s drawn in his life.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A conclusion.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to @cinnamoncookies, for going on this journey with me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The elevator doors slide open, depositing the entirety of the Sozin family—sans Ozai, a new normal they have all eagerly accepted—into the hallway, funneling them into the lobby of Phoenix Pharma headquarters. The ride down from the executive floor had been silent save for the hum and whir of machinery, the air heavy with the knowledge of what they had just achieved; of Ozai facing an FBI grueling somewhere above their heads; of none of them being in danger of becoming his Patsy.</p><p>Not anymore.</p><p>Hanging back and letting the others go ahead, Lu Ten gently nudges Zuko and nods for him to hang back. Now in his late thirties, with silver hair slightly streaking the sides of his coal black hair, Lu Ten still retained a youthful vigor to him. Looking at Zuko, a light kindles behind his dark eyes with a sort of self-satisfied glee. Zuko doesn’t need to prompt him, Lu Ten suddenly bursts, “I maybe did a bad thing.”</p><p>“Uh?” Zuko manages because that isn’t exactly what he wants to hear after managing to outmaneuver a master-manipulator like Ozai Sozin.</p><p>Lu Ten explains, “In the agreement Ozai signed. I wrote in that all charges about Ozai hurting you wouldn’t be brought as long as the insider-trading and embezzling charges were being investigated and, in the event he’s found guilty—”</p><p>“Which I’m sure he will be,” Zuko grumbles.</p><p>“Naturally,” Lu Ten concedes, wide grin growing near manic. “So, in that event, the charges can’t be brought until he serves his sentence.”</p><p>Zuko’s brain churns, cogs creaking back to use after the mental strain of keeping up with the rapidity of accusations and revelations tossed around in the boardroom, and it takes him one blink, then another, to comprehend. “You’re saying that if and when he’s released—?”</p><p>Lu Ten nods. “Yeah, you could take him to court and lock him away again.” Reading the darkening of Zuko’s face, his eyebrows furrowing and his mouth twisting, he hurriedly tacks on, “Or not. Totally up to you. I will obviously be your legal counsel no matter what you decide.”</p><p>Catching his lower lip with his teeth, Zuko nibbles at it in thought. If there is any justice in this world, Ozai will face a fifteen-year sentence at minimum, and even with parole, Zuko would still be well into his late thirties or early forties by the time he sees his father walk free again. He’d hopefully have a family, a husband, a firm grasp of happiness. Could he live with the shadow of a looking court case on the horizon? Rather, could he live with the equal horror of knowing Ozai will eventually return to plague humanity as a free man?</p><p>Forcing past the sudden blockage in his throat, Zuko admits, “Honestly, I don’t think that’s a decision I want to make right now…but…but thank you. I really appreciate it.”</p><p>Lu Ten gives him a searching look before his trademark smile blooms across his face. Clapping a hand onto Zuko’s shoulder, he exclaims, “Anything for you, baby cousin!” Submitting to Lu Ten tossing his arm over his shoulder—his cousin <em>did </em>just help bring Ozai to his knees, Zuko could at least tolerate little side-hug—Zuko allows himself to be herded away from the elevators.</p><p>Zuko jerks to a halt, accidentally wrenching Lu Ten’s arm. Yet, he’s deaf to his cousin’s protests, his eyes transfixed and his eyes locked.</p><p>Parked in front of the security desk, using far too many words of explanation, accompanied by hand-waving illustrations, stands Sokka, allegedly attempting to convince a very put-upon security guard to allow him to pass. At Sokka’s back stand Aang and Katara, their clothes wrinkled and dark pools underscoring their eyes. The hubbub Sokka orchestrates has drawn the attention of Azula, who’s joined the security guard and listens to Sokka’s (probably frenzied) babbling with crossed arms.</p><p>Yet, all of this is second to the primary fact lodged in Zuko’s mind: Sokka is here. <em>Here. </em>In Texas. In the <em>Phoenix Pharmaceutical headquarters.</em></p><p>“Who are they? Do you know them?” Lu Ten asks, but the questions fall on unhearing ears, Zuko’s feet moving without his conscious assent. He’s walking, then jogging, then fully sprinting across the lobby, every second he’s separated from Sokka suddenly seems an unbearable eternity.</p><p>“Sokka!” he shouts. Sokka turns at the sound of his name, his arching eyebrows floating further upward as his smile widens. His grin shines with the brightness of the sun, life-giving and warm, and Zuko swears he’d trade every star in the sky if he got to see the radiance, the brilliance of Sokka smiling every day. Zuko puts on speed. “You came! I mean, why are you here? <em>How? </em>I—”</p><p>They crash together, Sokka nearly pitching backward with the force of impact, but neither notice how they pitch and tilt. Zuko’s too concerned with wrapping his arms tight around Sokka’s middle; Sokka’s too concerned with cradling Zuko’s jaw and guiding his lips to his. Their mouths fumble then slot together, the electricity that charges Sokka’s every kiss seeming to awaken his senses to a hyper-awareness dominated entirely by the urgency of kissing Sokka. He tasted the gas station coffee on Sokka’s lips, the faint lingering wisps of his cologne, the soft cotton of his tee-shirt giving away to smooth skin, the gentle flutter of eyelashes as Sokka’s eyes close to submit himself to the kiss.</p><p>Zuko follows his example.</p><p>And when Zuko feels as though he’s memorized Sokka’s essence, engraved it forever into his senses so he can recall this perfect golden memory in all its glorious detail, does he allow himself to break away. His lungs ache for air, and after he gulps down five inhales does he notice Azula—wearing both a curled mouth amusement and a judgmentally raised eyebrow—Aang and Katara—wearing beaming, though exhausted, smiles— Uncle—who looks immensely pleased with himself—and Lu Ten and Mom.</p><p>“Um,” he croaks. “Sorry, everyone. Sokka, this is my family. Family, this is Sokka, my…?”</p><p>Clasping Zuko’s hand, Sokka fills in, “Your boyfriend, though I think we need to talk about some things before we go on any dates.”</p><p>His fingers tingling from simply <em>holding </em>Sokka’s hand (and wow, is he both pitiful and emotionally drained right now), Zuko agrees, “Absolutely.”</p><hr/><p>The Sozin clan (plus guests) decide on Grimaldi’s pizza in Watters Creek as the first on a long list of ‘Fuck You’ bucket list items Azula’s been recording on her phone (‘it was a part of my revenge fantasy against Father: purposefully going to all the restaurants he hated. Surreal that I now get to eat pizza and know it’d completely piss Ozai off,’ she explained on the drive over).*</p><p>After a brief explanation that Sokka, Aang, and Katara had been driving all night, it had been decided they needed a proper meal and were absolutely not allowed to navigate the Dallas midday traffic—even it if was a Saturday—on their lonesome. Hence why the three of them crammed into the backseat of Azula’s Acura. Hence why the five of them are now piling into the pizza parlor to grab a table for eight to feast and celebrate their victory.</p><p>As they’re waiting for the hostess to scrounge together a table large enough to accommodate them, Zuko finds that he and Sokka are waiting and chatting with the others while holding hands. As if they’ve reached the comfort levels, the casualness, that they can simply hold hands in public. Glancing down at their intertwined fingers and then up to Sokka’s ocean eyes, deep enough to swim in, Zuko says in an undertone, “This is nice.”</p><p>Sokka bumps their shoulders together. “You’re nice.”</p><p>“Stop flirting with me,” Zuko teases lightly.</p><p>A flashing grin across Sokka’s face. “Nope.” He exaggerates the ‘p,’ popping it. “I’ll flirt with my boyfriend whenever I want.” Zuko grins, ducking his head to hide the encroaching blush. A comfortable silence ensues, both of them listening to Aang somehow wheedling Azula into talking about her painting therapy. <em>Wow, does that kid work fast, </em>Zuko thinks. His attention’s drawn by Sokka tracing a nonsensical design on the back of his hand.</p><p>“What is it?” Zuko prompts.</p><p>“Just thinking,” Sokka replies. Zuko waits for him to continue. “This doesn’t quite feel real, you know? Standing here with you, our friends, and about to eat dinner with your family. I just feel like we’ve done this whole relationship way out of order. Like, I chased you down to Dallas and we’d only kissed about five times.”</p><p>“The fifth time <em>was </em>for two and a half hours, though,” Zuko can’t help but point out. Sokka flashes him a scowl—ruined by his smirk—and a chuckle threatens to gurgle out of Zuko’s mouth. He forces it down, knowing Sokka’s trying to be serious, to be open, with him. “But, seriously, I know how weird this all is. If you want to start over, I understand. We can reset when we get home; go out on real dates and everything.”</p><p>Sokka considers him for a long second before leaning in to kiss the corner of Zuko’s mouth. “No,” he breaths, the words feeling like a caress against Zuko’s mouth, his nose. “No, everything we’ve been through makes us stronger. We just got to be more open with each other.”</p><p>“I know, and I’ll try,” Zuko promises. “I need to tell you everything that happened today; it was so much and…” Words dry up on his tongue, forgotten in favor of brief confusion. He feels like his pocket has been filled with an angry swarm of bees and it’s a testament to the strain of today’s events that it takes him a dragging moment to realize it’s his phone buzzing.</p><p>Extracting the phone, Zuko’s eyebrows jump when he reads the caller ID.</p><p>Peering over his shoulder, Sokka urges, “You should take that.”</p><p>Glancing at him, Zuko confirms, “Are you sure?” At a nod and further urging from Sokka, Zuko reluctantly lets go of his hand, stepping away from their little group to accept the call and press the phone to his ear. “Hello? Dr. Hao?”</p><p>“Zuko,” Dr. Hao’s low voice rumbles back from the other end. “I’m assuming you’ve spoken with your uncle?”</p><p>Zuko turns, staring out the front windows of the pizza parlor and to the little group of his family—Ursa, Iroh, and Lu Ten—emerging from the parking garage across the street. He watches as they wait for a car to pass, the three chattering together animatedly, his mind flashing back to the confession penned by Dr. Hao and read by Uncle in what felt like a lifetime ago. Yet, Zuko, checks his wristwatch; it had only been an hour and fifteen minutes ago.</p><p>“Yes. The confession?” Zuko guesses. “Is it all true?”</p><p>A sigh. “Unfortunately so, which makes what I must ask of you all the more awkward.”</p><p>“Dr. Hao,” Zuko returns, “You just helped my family stand up to my father. I don’t care if you accepted a generous donation ten years ago, because I understand how Ozai must have terrified you then.” He pauses, craning to watch his sister, his friends, and his boyfriend be led into the restaurant by the hostess. He watches as Katara and Azula settle in chairs next together, chatting about something, how Sokka pointedly saves the seat next to him. Unaware he’s wearing a smile, Zuko adds, “What matters is what you do in the present.”</p><p>“You’re a wise young man, you know that?” Dr. Hao asks rhetorically. “You carry insight beyond your years.”</p><p>Zuko snorts and it might have been rueful on any day but today. Today, he’s too filled with happiness and gratitude to manage anything ruefully. “It’s hard earned, doc, I assure you.”</p><p>“That may be true,” Dr. Hao concedes. After a pause, he says, “Well, I’ll cut to the chase: I feel I must ask you to leave the medical practice. The drama connected to your family name will bring unwanted attention to the clinic and I feel we’ve reached a natural terminus point—”</p><p>“Doctor Hao,” Zuko interrupts, far more ambivalently than anyone essentially fired from their position has the right to be; perhaps it’s because he had been fully prepared to sacrifice his career on the pyre of bringing down Ozai through an FBI interview only that morning. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I understand and I agree. I’ll submit my resignation papers and be in to gather my things. Let’s end our partnership as friends and with only gratitude.”</p><p>Dr. Hao, perhaps too stunned to work up any other reply, agrees and thanks Zuko.</p><p>He ends the phone call as Ursa, Lu Ten, and Iroh enter the restaurant, waving to them and cheerfully guiding them back to the table. He’d deal with his unemployment when he returned to Chicago. For now, he will eat pizza with his new family. Which, ironically enough, can be the old one combined with an unexpected one: the uniting factor being they all chose Zuko and Zuko chose them.</p><p> </p><p>*the author would like to explain: Ozai, being a horrible person, hates any foods that are not 1) bland, 2) overly salted, 3) vaguely beige-colored or 4) a combination of items one through three. Therefore, such seemingly universally loved foods, such as Neapolitan-style pizza, were nonstarters when it came to the rare Sozin family dinner outing.</p><hr/><p>The echoes of the family—and Katara and Aang, who both drank <em>way too much </em>Pepsi at lunch and now riding a sugar high—drift up the stairs from the living room, as if following along behind Sokka as Zuko shows him to one of the guest bedrooms. Though everyone’s good mood contributed to the innumerable raucous rounds of Jackbox, Sokka couldn’t hide his string of yawns from the hawkishly perceptive attention of Zuko.</p><p>After the sixth yawn in as many minutes, Zuko quietly offered Sokka one of the guest bedrooms to sack out in early; it was just approaching 7:30 PM, but the heaviness of Sokka’s eyelids made it feel more like 11:30. He readily agreed.</p><p>Zuko gestures to his bedroom door, saying, “I’ll be just in there if you need me for anything.”</p><p>Though exhaustion reduces his steps to a shuffle, his shoulders slumping, Sokka manages a slow-stretching smile. It’s borderline, and accidentally, roguish. “Why would I need you?”</p><p>Tossing him a grin over his shoulder, gamily ignoring the blush rising to his cheek, Zuko retorts, “No particular reason.” He leads Sokka along the hall, the wood floorboards creaking underfoot, and leads the way into one of the darkened guest rooms, flicking on the lights. Known as the blue room—though Ursa’s manic renovations back seven years ago painted over the blue with a pinky-coral while leaving the blue furniture accents—it’s the only guest room in the family wing, therefore the only room Sokka could be in while still being close to Zuko.</p><p>Should he need him for no particular reason, of course.</p><p>At the sight of the plush down comforter and quilted coverlet, Sokka crosses the room, dropping his duffel en route, flopping across the bed. Face pressed into the bedding, he moans almost erotically at the sheer bliss of being able to stretch out. “Ugh,” he states eloquently, burrowing deeper.</p><p>Zuko’s mouth slants with a smile. “Let me grab you some towels and stuff. There’s an attached bathroom.”</p><p>“Of course there’s an attached bathroom,” Sokka mumbles into the bed. Zuko grins wider. He wavers in the doorjamb, savoring the sight of Sokka sprawled out in contented bliss—the thought of Sokka in his home, Sokka welcomed in and openly as Zuko’s boyfriend, therefore meaning Zuko’s openly himself with his family. Never in his wildest adolescent dreams could he have conceived it possible. During those terrifyingly dark, early days of high school, when he simultaneously realized he preferred boys and also that Ozai could never, <em>never </em>know, Zuko didn’t even dare daydream he might be accepted as a gay man by his family, never mind inviting his boyfriend to meet them, eat pizza with them, play party games with them.</p><p><em>They’ve all grown, </em>Zuko thinks only to realize the truth of the matter: <em>No, we’ve all grown past Ozai.</em></p><p>Shifting on the bed, flipping onto his side and propping his head up, Sokka asks around a yawn, “Hey, Zuko? Can I ask you something?”</p><p>Slightly embarrassed he was caught staring, Zuko shifts his weight from foot-to-foot. “Yeah, of course, you can ask anything. What’s up?”</p><p>Sokka’s eyes, made cerulean by the blue-and-white toile pattern of the quilt, slide away and he focuses at picking nonexistent lint from around him. His mouth works at the words before he finally settles on, “Why didn’t you…why did you lie about listening to the podcast?” When Zuko doesn’t immediately reply, Sokka corrects, “Well, not <em>lie, </em>but not tell me?”</p><p>Hesitating in the doorframe, pummeling his lower lip as he thinks, Zuko watches Sokka pointedly <em>not </em>watching him. He moves across the room and sits on the bench at the foot of the bed, legs tugged under him. He drapes his arms onto the bed, resting his chin onto his knuckles just inches from Sokka’s plucking fingers. “I think I was afraid. Afraid of how much I had built up you and Aang as these larger-than-life comedians in my head, but that I also thought of you as my friends. I think I was worried you wouldn’t want to be my friend, even when it began to seem like a possibility.” He refuses to wince on today of all days; he won’t cringe at how pathetic and childish he sounds. He’s only beginning to wake up to the fact that Ozai instilled in him shame for his childishness even when he <em>was </em>a child and he’s now only beginning to wake up to all the work that will need to go into forgiving himself.</p><p>Sokka’s eyes flick up, his fingers stilling. He doesn’t move to touch Zuko. Not yet. “That’s what you wrote about in the first Blue Spirit email, right? About how you thought of Aang and I as friends?”</p><p>Zuko can’t keep his eyebrows from floating upward. “You went back and reread them?”</p><p>“Of course,” Sokka replies, smile flicking across his face. “I <em>had </em>to. After that email you sent, I pretty much went on a Zuko deep-dive of research.”</p><p>Now, Zuko does wince. “Ah, the email.” It’s his turn to start picking at nonexistent lint. “I am really sorry about sending it, especially since you did ask me to stop contacting you. That really wasn’t…wasn’t cool.”</p><p>Sokka hand comes to rest over Zuko’s, stilling it. “That’s just something we’re going to have to work on, okay? Respecting boundaries? Like, I get why you did it: you were at a really vulnerable point and it was a desperate act, but we’re going to have set ground rules for the future.”</p><p>Zuko nods. Then huffs out a laugh; it’s a chopped-up sound, segmented by the sudden lump in his throat and he admits, “I just can’t really believe you’d still want to be with me after all of this.”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s weird, isn’t it?” Sokka agrees. When Zuko stares at him, he finds amusement curling Sokka’s mouth, his head tilted in consideration. “I don’t really get it either. You lied about listening to my podcast, but I still love the fact that you like ghosts and spooky shit, too. You acted crazy about your family, but you still confided in me about your crazy family. You made decisions for the both of us, but at the same time you listened and supported me in my own decisions. It’s kind of a mess.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Zuko agrees on a long, steadying breath. “Yeah, an absolute dumpster fire.”</p><p>“But, a beautiful dumpster fire,” Sokka gently corrects, leaning forward to press a kiss against Zuko’s mouth. Zuko tilts his head, slotting his lips more firmly against Sokka’s, and submits himself to the kiss.</p><p>When they separate, foreheads pressed together, Sokka asks, “You know, when I chased you down to Texas, I imagined something a little bit more dramatic than all of this.”</p><p>“Don’t you think we’ve both been dramatic enough in this relationship already?” Zuko returns.</p><p>Laughing, inching forward to bump their noses together, Sokka quips back, “God forbid we be rational though.” Zuko allows his eyes to flutter closed, reveling in the feeling of Sokka’s laughter, his breath, warming his skin.</p><p>Then, a sigh. “I’m willing to do the work to make us happen. To make us last.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“And I want to do the work to make myself better, happier. I’m not going to put it all on you. That’s not fair. I’ll go to therapy and also try to be more open with you.”</p><p>“Okay, Aang will be overjoyed to hear that,” Sokka says. When Zuko cracks his eyes open to judge Sokka’s seriousness, he wears a positive radiance—like he believes with every iota of his being that Zuko can and will get better; that <em>they </em>can and will get better together—and the faith Sokka has in him settles over Zuko.</p><p>Sokka brushes fingers along Zuko’s cheeks, tucking loose tendrils of silky black hair behind his ears. “And I need to tell you something, too.” When Zuko hums, as close to a prompting as Sokka will get, he continues, “I…I’m really, seriously considering the <em>Ember. </em>position. I know following me to New York is kind of crazy but…?”</p><p>“But we could do long-distance for a little bit with the intention of me coming to live with you,” Zuko fills in. “Everywhere needs doctors.”</p><p>Air audibly catches in Sokka’s throat. “You’d…you’d do that for me?”</p><p>Knowing now sets a precedence for the honesty and transparency that will be the foundation for the rest of their relationship—<em>hopefully the rest of our lives, </em>Zuko thinks<em>—</em>he confesses, “Well, I <em>was </em>politely asked to leave my medical practice.”</p><p>Taking on an edge of teasing, Sokka prods, “So I’m just the next best option then?”</p><p>Kissing the corner of his mouth, earning Sokka’s quirking smile, Zuko assures, “Of course not. The truth is…even though Uncle’s in Chicago, I doubt it’d feel like home even you weren’t there.”</p><p> “Are you saying home is where I am? Because that’s really fucking cheesy—” Sokka begins only to be cut off by Zuko propping himself onto his forearms, giving him a greater range to kiss Sokka deeply and longly. Sokka chortles into Zuko’s lips, making him chuckle too, and soon they have to break apart for fear of choking over their own laughter.</p><p> When he’s regained enough oxygen, Zuko wheezes out, “Shut up, asshole, I’ll say cheesy things to you whenever I want.”</p><p>Sokka’s lips unfurl into a broad grin. “Is that a threat or a promise?”</p><p>Poking him in the ribs, Zuko snips, “Weren’t you going to bed or something?”</p><hr/><p><em>Transcript from</em> Masterminds and Maniacs, <em>Ep. 1</em></p><p>
  <em>Retrieved from: Zuko’s Cursed Meme Folder, a M&amp;M fanblog</em>
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  <em>Courtesy of user Teo (@gimli_legolas4ever)</em>
</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Hey humanoids, cryptids, ghouls, and extraterrestrials: it’s <em>not</em> ya boys, the Ghoul Bros, but instead only one half of them! You heard right, Ghouligans, it’s only one half of the <em>Cryptid: Decoded </em>tribe, here. It’s Sokka and I’m joined here by—</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Zuko! I’m joining to bring you a fresh podcast from the creative team you know and love behind <em>Cryptid: Decoded—</em></p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Which is literally just me, in case anyone’s wondering. I do all the editing and ‘creative-ing’.</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>And our new show, <em>Masterminds and Maniacs, </em>a true crime podcast covering everything from murdering psychopaths to CEO psychopaths.</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>Basically, if anything <em>might </em>be illegal, we’re going to cover it!</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>Sokka brings to the show his research expertise after years as a supernatural and legends enthusiast—</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>While Zuko brings his expertise as a licensed doctor and the son of a psychopath!</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>[laughing] Okay, let’s not say anything that could get us sued. However, in the interest of full disclosure, if you Google me, yes, I am <em>that </em>Zuko, son of Ozai Sozin, who was indeed sentenced to twenty years for insider-trading and embezzling. But, I promise, the white-collar crime isn’t a family trait.</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>And it was Zuko’s idea to create this show so he can share information about real-life criminals, help solve cold cases, and maybe even equip, you, the listener, to be safe and vigilant.</p><p><strong>Zuko: </strong>We’re going to be unpacking some of the most scandalous crimes in United States history—both solved and unsolved—and I’ll be offering my insight to you while Sokka will be offering the jokes.</p><p><strong>Sokka: </strong>As always. So, if all of the above sounds good to you, then buckle up your little booties, because we’re about to tell you about a murder in one of America’s most affluent neighborhoods and how the investigation led detectives straight to the doors of the American royalty…</p><p>[<em>Masterminds and Maniac</em> theme music plays]</p><p>
  <em>(transcript continues on next page)</em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Allow me to snag you at the very end of this fic to say, from the bottom of my heart, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading, kudo'ing, commenting, and/or just throwing love on this story. It's been a ride, growing from a fluffy au drabble into a beastly plot, and I have to thank you all for humoring my narrative antics and for enjoying (or not?) the twists and turns along the way. If you're feeling the ending wasn't satisfying, fear not! I plan to post one-shots of this au soon. Also, if you like my writing, I've posted the first chapters of the two fic ideas I mentioned a couple of author's notes ago. If you're so inclined, check them out! If you're not, then I'll love you with my deepest love, gratitude, and a plethora of virtual hugs.</p><p>-lackadaisical</p>
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